


Threefold

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Assassin's Creed Brotherhood, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-08 09:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: The Borgia are gone and Ezio returns to Rome - to find that something came out of the Vault where he left the Apple of Eden.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to Nimadge
> 
> Background music [Assassin's Creed Revelations Main Menu Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vq12-7feyg4)

>   _As the world burned, the Grand Temple protected us. Through the fires and the chaos of those first few days, as lakes boiled and rivers ran dry, as fires consumed the forests and billions of people died, we were safe. I regret it now – not surviving, precisely, but not… not saving more people. There was so much space in the Grand Temple, but we didn't even try. Did it cross my mind? Perhaps. Could've, should've, would've – but didn't. If I have a list of sins, that will be the one on top. Right under my first failure and before my desertion of the Brotherhood, when I was young. Perhaps best I don't account my sins here. In hindsight, there's terribly many._
> 
> _Seven billion people, gone. God only knows how many animals went extinct. Millions of hectares of forests, thousands of towns and cities in flame, crumbling under the tremors that wouldn't stop for solid three days. Earth's whole satellite infrastructure, scorched away. Power lines, cables, networks, everything. The afterflashes wiped out most of the electronics. Three days and all we'd accomplished since the industrial revolution was reduced to fire and ash._
> 
> _But_ we _were safe, none of it touched us in the Grand Temple. Its structures had withstood the destruction once before and they weathered it again without any trouble. We barely even felt the shaking, and when the ash covered the sky and smoke filled the air, we breathed free underground. There was enough air and water to sustain us for months, and we had food for weeks. We'd stocked for it, and so we survived. When the sky blackened and the Solar Winter started, we were almost cosy in our little hideaway._
> 
> _Lucky us._

* * *

 

Rome feels different now. Ezio walks down the streets, stalling a little and just taking in the almost _touchable_ change in the air. It has been a while since he's seen Rome, and it seems like the very sunlight is brighter now, with the Borgia gone. True enough, they've been gone from the city for a good while now, Cesare Borgia hadn't set a foot upon Rome in a few years now, but finally… it's over.

Rodrigo is long dead. Cesare has joined his father in the afterlife. Rome is finally and completely purged of their stain, and free to flourish however it will, without Templar control. Ezio can see the effect of it on people's faces – in the numbers of beggars, in the amount of trash on the streets. Unlike Alexander VI, Julius II is treating his city kindly, it seems. In the months Ezio has been away, they've even begun rebuilding.

The people seem less wretched. That, Ezio decides, is the best change. It had already begun when he'd left, the change in the people of Rome, how they finally could hold their heads up high again, but now it's reached its fruition. They are free, again, from tyranny and cruelty, and they know it. And with Cesare dead, the last risk of the Borgia regaining any power over this city is gone.

Ezio has done his work well. Maybe now, finally… he's done.

It's a long way to Tiber Island, after a longer journey from Spain, but though he could get a horse and make it quicker, he does not, taking his time instead. He peers into familiar shops and sees new works in the artisan stores. New armour and weapons in the smithies. New styles of doublet in the tailors, ever sillier in their intricacies. Time, it seems, has moved on.

Good.

Of course, it doesn't take long before someone spots him. Pity. Few months away have not erased him from memory, it seems. Perhaps he ought to have worn a disguise.

"Mentore," a female voice almost whispers and Ezio looks to his left to find that he's been joined in the crowd by an assassin. Valeria, looking splendid as ever in full regalia. "You are back – we did not know to expect you."

"I didn't send a word ahead, my apologies," Ezio says, offering her a smile. "My ship landed only few hours back."

"If you had sent word, we would have been there to welcome you."

"It's not necessary," Ezio says. He'd wanted to take a breath of fresh air before inundating himself in the matters of the Brotherhood once more. The break had been a welcome one, but he knows – though he'd built the brotherhood to last and to survive without him… he's unfortunately still the mentor. "How are our brothers and sisters?"

"Everything is well," Valeria says. "Master Machiavelli has been a good leader in your absence – though not, of course, as good as you, Mentore. It is good to have you back."

"Have we lost anyone?" Ezio asks.

"No, Mentore. All are well – though Ermanno was wounded in a skirmish, a month ago, but he is almost fully recovered now."

Better news he couldn't have wished for.

Ezio draws a breath and closes his eyes, nodding. "It's good to be home," he says. "Tell me what has been happening while I have been gone. I see Julius has been doing some repairs."

"I suspect Master Machiavelli might have something to do with that," Valeria says, smiling a little, and then begins reporting to him the comings and goings of the city, as well as she knows them. Some of it's bad, some of it's good – Rome is not a perfect peaceful city by far – but none hold a candle to the atrocities committed by the Borgia. To have any good news at all is a vast improvement.

Yes, Ezio thinks with satisfaction. It's good to be home.

Machiavelli knows he's back before he and Valeria reach the hideout, of course – someone else must have spotted them. Two white clad assassins aren't terribly inconspicuous in a crowd, after all. The former Mentor and temporary leader is waiting in the entrance hall when Ezio slips in, looking, for all the world to see, unchanged.

"You did not send a word ahead – we would have better prepared for your return if you had," Machiavelli says, in tones of disapproval.

"Someone must keep you on your toes, Machiavelli," Ezio says with a faint smile. "I hear things have been peaceful in my absence."

"Yes, it seems you took the chaos with you when you left, something I assure you everyone appreciates," Machiavelli says. "We did get word of Cesare's fate, however – fell to his death, was it?"

"He might have had help making his way to the ledge," Ezio admits, as they turn together to head to the office. "Let history chalk it up to an accident, and leave it at that. I want no fame for it."

"Just as well, I suppose," Machiavelli says and casts him a glance. "Could he have regained power? Julius II is working hard to undermine the power of any individual house in Rome – he's forcing the Orsini and Colonna to behave, something even the Borgia didn't quite manage. I am not sure if Cesare could have managed power under these conditions."

"There is always a chance for unusual things to happen, and Cesare was nothing if not a great improviser," Ezio says grimly. He will keep the vision of Cesare with the Papal Staff in hand to himself – for all of its horrors, that future is gone now with Cesare's death, so there is really no need to share it. "I'm glad to hear the Pope is doing something good, for once."

"Yes, it's definitely an improvement," Machiavelli says, and opens the door to the Mentor's office. "We have been working in your absence, clearing out the last of Borgia's influence and capturing what knowledge there was left behind by the Templars and their experiments. You will be happy to know that the memory of your friend's war machines is now officially only that – a memory."

"And here I thought I did good enough job at that myself," Ezio says, casting Machiavelli a look. "Did I miss something?"

"There were some copies still left, hidden, along with some other caches of knowledge they had gleaned from the Apple and written down," Machiavelli says. "It's quite the thing, what they learned. Leonardo has been kind enough to look over some of it and he assures us, it is better that they could not figure out how to use the knowledge they gained."

Ezio looks at his office and sighs. There's a whole basket of scrolls waiting for him. Damn it. "I suppose I must get to work then," he mutters and runs a hand over his chin.

"Well," Machiavelli says, amused. "It's not as dire as all that. I can manage things a day or two longer, if you wish to take a moment to settle in. A bath, perhaps, would not go amiss – and please, do inform your sister instead of subjecting all of us to her ire when we inevitably fail to inform her of your return."

"Don't think I missed the insult there," Ezio says, giving him a look. "Are you saying I stink, Machiavelli?"

"Yes – of fish," the other Assassin says flatly. "You did not come on a merchant vessel?"

Ezio shakes his head. "Never mind that. Anything I should know before I go and settle myself in a bathtub?"

Machiavelli considers and then shakes his head. "Nothing dire, I don't think," he says. "Certainly nothing of Cesare Borgia's level."

"Let us hope there will never be another Cesare Borgia," Ezio says and shakes his head. "In that case I will take my leave."

"Welcome home, Ezio," Machiavelli calls after him, rather pointedly. "I'm glad to _finally_ know that our Mentore came out of the assassination no worse for wear."

"Ah. Thank you, Machiavelli," Ezio says and sighs. "I'm sorry for not sending a word ahead. I needed the time. Next time, I'll be sure to write."

Machiavelli nods firmly and that's that.

* * *

 

Of course, he can't think himself finished now. The last time he let his guard down and pronounced himself done, his task complete, his work as Assassin finished, it was to find an army at his doorstep the following morning, his uncle dead and his world overturned. It had been a sweet moment of delusional respite that he cannot achieve anymore – even having seen Rome changed and liberated, part of him remains uneasy.

Perhaps there will never be rest for that part of him, the part that still dreams of Monteriggioni in flames, of cannons battering her walls, of crack of muskets on the roofs – of Mario falling, falling, dead. The Apple is concealed where no man but the one it's meant for can find it, Ezio is certain of that at least, but still, somewhere in his memories… the cannons will forever pound Monteriggioni's walls.

He hasn't been able to enjoy bathing since, not to that extent – even now he makes haste, cleans himself quickly, and pulls all of his armour on after. There will be no Caterina to tempt him to bed anymore – she lives in Florence now, with her children, and her last letter sounded both content and faded. The loss of Forli had changed her, and though Ezio misses her, he misses the woman she used to be more. And maybe the man he used to be, when he was with her.

They'd all changed along these terrible years, hadn't they?

Ezio sighs and sits down to work his way through his gear, doing the maintenance he had left for later while onboard the ship. The salty ocean air had not agreed with the mechanisms of the hidden blade – but there was no point of oiling the gears before making landfall, they would only jam up again. Thankfully, Leonardo had made their blades easier to maintain, in his latest re-design of the construction.

He would need to check up on Leonardo and soon, before the changing winds would sweep his oldest friend away. If it hadn't already done that – Leonardo was ill suited to staying still. For all that he knows, the man might've flown off to Milan or something of that nature, to entertain the lords and ladies there with his art and contraptions.

"Welcome back, Mentore," another of his students murmurs, coming upon him in the armoury. "I hope your mission went well?"

"Ermanno," Ezio nods to the young man. "The deed was done, Cesare Borgia is dead. How goes your training? I hear you were wounded."

"A scrape only, Mentore, it healed well. Candida has been helping me, I think I am improving – though, of course, it is up to you to say if I am," the young man says with a quick, respectful nod. He hesitates then, looking like he wants to say something.

"Out with it," Ezio says, carefully setting individual gears in a line, just like how Leonardo taught him – _keep everything always in the same order, so you can put it all back together the same way_.

"I'm sure it is nothing, but… there is something important by the Coliseum, yes?" Ermanno says carefully.

Ezio frowns, casting a sideways glance at the young man.

Ermanno lifts his hands quickly. "We have not snooped around, Mentore, never – but we have been keeping an eye on the place, just in case someone else might. There used to be a lair of the Followers of Romulus there too, and Master Machiavelli wanted to make sure no one would make use of it. So we have kept a clandestine watch."

Ezio detaches the blade and sets it beside the gears. "You have seen something," he says and thinks _is this how it ends, this moment of respite, is this all the rest I get?_

"I'm sure it is nothing, Mentore – but I was doing a round, checking up on the people living there," Ermanno says. "And I saw a strange man appear… from somewhere. I don't know where he came from, but I know I did not see him enter the Coliseum – only leave. And I'm sure he wasn't there when I was making my rounds."

Ezio frowns, considering the young man. Ermanno is young, as his recruits go, nowhere near ready for the Leap of Faith – but he is also one of the rare recruits who too has Eagle Vision. It is weaker than Ezio's own ability, but he has it, and as such, he misses little when he's _watching_. If he says man came out of nowhere, then he did.

"North side of the ruins, I assume?" Ezio says slowly.

"Y-yes, Mentore, exactly on the north side," Ermanno says.

Ezio nods. "Sit, Ermanno, and tell me what you saw. Leave nothing out."

Ermanno quickly pulls up a stool, carefully keeping distance to the table as to not disturb Ezio's work with the fiddly gears and springs of his blade. "I could not tell his features, he was wearing a black hood, but he was not a young man – there was grey in his beard," Ermanno says and quickly begins describing the man's clothes. Black hood under a black leather armour, carrying on his back a bag and a firearm – he did not have a sword, not that Ermanno could see.

Ezio leans back. "This man," he says slowly, thoughtfully, "did he wear beads on his armour?" he asks and motions over his chest. "Around or across the chest, perhaps? Did his armour seem Moorish?"

"No, Mentore," Ermanno says, frowning a little as he thinks back. "It was only black leather, I didn't see designs on it."

"Did you see his hands – was he missing a finger?"

"Not that I could tell, Mentore, but I did not see him close up," Ermanno admits. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright," Ezio answers and folds his arms. Spanish Assassins wear primarily black, and their armour is mainly leather as well. They rarely use firearms from what he'd seen, though – Ezio had introduced their Mentor to the designs of Leonardo's improved hidden blade, including the pistol upon it, but it had not gained much interest. The Spanish Brotherhood still follows older tenets – they even perform the Sacrifice of Devotion, though only upon becoming Master Assassins, calling it a true mark of Master Assassin.

His branded finger gained some not so surreptitious disdain among their Spaniard brothers – something Ezio would have taken as an insult, had he been a younger man. Now he only saw it as something of a backwards way of thinking – the Spanish brotherhood, though embracing Altaïr's Tenets, also rejected them at the same time, embracing a practice he'd intentionally and for a good reason abolished.

The Spanish brotherhood had been in possession of an Apple of Eden, however – long before Ezio possessed his, even. Could they know, somehow, that he had came to possess it again and that he had hidden it? No one should know where it is, and yet… obviously his own brotherhood had not missed him hiding it.

Curse of living among masters of spying.

"This man, I assume he did not linger in the ruins?" Ezio says.

"No, Mentore – I followed him ways, but lost him in a crowd," Ermanno admits. "I am sorry. He was heading towards the Centro District, I think, but I cannot say for sure."

"When was this?"

"Perhaps three hours ago."

Ezio closes his eyes. Three hours ago – around the time he made landfall. Coincidence? Unlikely. "Thank you, Ermanno, you have done well – though I wish you didn't watch the Coliseum, I wish no attention to be drawn upon it."

"We have not, Mentore – but I will tell the others to stop," Ermanno says and hangs his head. "I am sorry, Mentore. We did not mean to make trouble."

No, they meant to please him. Ezio sighs. Has he been too sparing of his praise, for them to seek out ways to sneak their way into his good graces? Lord, he knows he was preoccupied the last year or so, but has he been neglecting his students this badly?

"It's alright, son, I am not mad," Ezio says. "I'm sure you meant well – but please, cease now."

"Yes, Mentore," Ermanno says, still hanging his head and sitting there, slouched, as if waiting for punishment.

Ezio has none to give, nor any praise, so with defeat he says, "Dismissed, novice," and privately swears to do something for his students now that he is back. A communal meal, perhaps, to remind them that he does care. Because he does. He has only been away and busy… and he'd hoped that with the Borgia gone, he could finally be a sort of Mentore his brotherhood needed, and a far less absentee one.

With this news, that seems rather unlikely, does it?

Ezio turns his attention to his blade and goes about finishing its maintenance, oiling the parts that need to be oiled and cleaning the ones that should not be stained. He meant to continue onto the other blade, but with this news…

It would have to wait.

He puts his blade back together, piece by piece, and then straps it back to his arm. He triggers the blade couple of times, making sure that the mechanism works to satisfaction, and then gets up, putting his oils and brushes away. Then, tucking his hood up and over his head, he draws a breath and turns to make his way out of the hideout.

* * *

 

It is still light out, and the Coliseum ruins look starkly desolate under the sun's rays. There are more little huts being built on the ruins, ragged curtains separating sections of the coliseum levels into awkward housing – but they look a little better put together than the last he saw the place. It doesn't seem like the papal forces raid these places as often as they did under Borgia rule, so the little houses have had the chance to become more permanent. The poor of the Coliseum are far from flourishing, of course, it is still a wretched sort of living, but… they seem a little better off.

Ezio is generous with his coin as he enters, giving plenty to each beggar guarding the ground level and they let him pass without word and without notice – if anyone would ask, he was never here. With any hope, his students have been as charitable – it is not as if the brotherhood is short of coin, these days.

"Hello, my good man," he greets the first one, a seemingly crippled man missing a leg and an eye. "How are things in the Coliseum?"

"Better and worse, as always," the beggar says and holds out a hand, pointed. "For better news one needs better coin."

"As always," Ezio agrees and hands him some. "A man in black was seen here recently, not five hours ago, a hooded figure carrying a firearm. Have you seen anything?"

"Nothing but these walls here," the beggar says. "But give me another and I'll ask around for you, Assassin."

"Appreciated," Ezio says, smiling, and gives him another silver piece. "I will be here for a bit; find me if you learn anything."

"Don't be mad with me if there is nothing."

"I will try to contain my disappointment," Ezio promises and watches with some amusement as the formerly crippled man somehow conjures a healthy leg from his ragged clothes and proceeds to scamper up the ruins.

The entrance to the Lair of Romulus remains sealed, and checking the markers he'd left behind, Ezio can tell that no one has been to the lair since he closed it off. He redoes the markers anyway, adding in a new one. As far as the lairs went, this one wasn't bad – but it is not as if normal people would be in market for a lair to inhabit, and Rome has only gotten free of one ridiculous cult, they don't need another.

Leaving the lair entrance behind, Ezio goes to check the entrance to the tunnels that lead to the vault. There, the markings have been disturbed – the door has been opened and closed. Someone has been there.

Ezio runs his hand over the disturbed marker and then looks around, concentrating until his vision changes, and sunlight bleeds away into darkness, and his own hands begin to glow. It takes a moment of strained concentration before he can see the trail, a path trodden into the grasses and mosses of the ruins – footsteps leading away from the door.

Crouching down, Ezio trails a finger over the nearest footprint. With normal vision he can only barely see it – with Eagle's Eyes, he can see the impressions it had left, a strange uneven mark, oddly grooved. The boot that had made the print had a sole carved unevenly. Strange and interesting – definitely not a Spanish Assassin, then, their shoes had leather soles and left nary a print.

Standing up, Ezio tugs at his cape until it falls over his arm and over his sword and the sets out to follow the glowing path.

Yes, he thinks wryly, resigning himself to a new investigation and a new mystery. It is good to be home, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

> _The weather was different before the Flare. There are those among us now who don't remember, those who were born after who will never understand how easy things used to be for us, before the Flare. We didn't have storms like we do now, winters weren't so cold, summers weren't so hot. Never mind the volcanoes – there weren't so many back then._
> 
> _Earth was kinder to us before the sun scorched almost all life from her surface. Winters around here, in the area of our little commune, were milder and during summer we got rain the way you can't even imagine now. Sure, there was occasional heat wave or storm surge, but they didn't last for weeks on end. We didn't just run out of water, mid summer. Sure, that sort of thing happened_ somewhere _but not, not here._
> 
> _Older folk still remember, of course. I suppose the younger ones are sick of us reminiscing about it by now. What's the point of lamenting about things that will never come back, things that are irreversibly changed and gone? It will make no difference if we tell our children how things_ used to be _or how they_ should be, _because they never will be again. Remembering the past won't change the future._
> 
> _I don't think our children will ever fully understand just how much history there was to lose. Countries, nations and thousands of years of history of their development… none of it means a damn thing anymore. Our war with the Templars? Completely pointless now, all of it. None of it matters._
> 
> _I teach my students to be Assassins, but there's no point even calling it that, the word has almost lost all its meaning. They use the skills I teach them to traverse the ravaged land and scavenge, and yes, occasionally kill those who attack them, but the reasons are very different now. There's no peace to be sought, no higher cause, no war to be stopped. We're reduced to basic needs now._
> 
> _I teach them so that maybe they will survive to see the years to come, however bad the weather will become. And I don't think it's getting any better anytime soon._

* * *

 

The glowing path meanders. It doesn't seem like that at first, the footsteps make a straight line from the Vault entrance to outside the Coliseum – and then Ezio follows them up the side and to the top of the structure. Whoever had came from the Vault had climbed the Coliseum itself – all the way to the top, where birds gather and wind blows.

As if they needed to get their bearings.

Well, it explains how Ermanno had lost the man so quickly – most likely the young novice had continued to watch the passing crowd and completely missed the fact that the man had left it so soon.

Ezio examines the top of the Coliseum, but though the glowing footprints meander around the top, they don't actually seem to make their way down. For a moment he thinks perhaps whoever traced this route had left the exact way they came and that accounts for the disappearing footprints – but no, that isn't quite it.

They've build a stables under the Coliseum, with piles of hay set aside for travelling horses – there Ezio can see a flicker of light as the steps continue. His quarry had made a Leap of Faith. Most certainly an Assassin then, or at least a man not afraid of making the plunge. Ezio crouches by the Coliseum's top, peering down, wondering. Could it be one of their Spanish brothers after all?

Ezio makes the Leap, enjoying the flight and the fall before flipping mid air and landing safely on his back in the hay. It takes more out of him than it used to, the fall, and he has to catch the breath the fall had knocked out of him before getting up again. He will have more falls in his future yet, he knows, but he can't quite brush them off like he used to as boy of seventeen, making those Leaps without ever understanding their significance.

This isn't the time to become nostalgic for youth, however. With a grunt, Ezio gets up again and, brushing straws from his armour and white robes, he peers around with the Eyes of the Eagle and spots the path again. Now it leads towards the Centro District.

And still, it meanders. After following the road a ways, the footsteps lead away from it and to the ruins of Prospero di Sienna, wandering amidst the pillars and columns for a while aimlessly before finally heading away again – and later, the footsteps leave the road again and this time head for the shore of the Tiber River. Ezio half expects to find the man having taken a path of the poles over the river, climbing boats and ships anchored in the waves, but the man had not. He'd walked the side of the Tiber river slowly, making periodic breaks towards the water. Did he need to wash something? The waters of the Tiber weren't exactly the cleanest for washing…

Finally, his quarry returned to man made roads and headed for the Ponte Sisto– where Ezio spots a group of thieves, watching the passing crowds, possibly for people to pickpocket from. Silently, Ezio leaves the crowd and makes his way over to them.

"Salute," he says quietly. "Have you been here for long, my friends?"

The thieves only eye him dubiously and say nothing – not until he sighs and takes out his money pouch. Then they talk. "Hour or so only, Assassin," they say, watching him. "You looking for something specific?"

"A man – black hooded in black leather armour, a bag and a gun at his back," Ezio says. Considering the meandering path the man had taken, it might not have been too long since he passed through here. "Did you see him?"

The thieves consider and then, somewhat disappointingly, shake their heads. "Don't think I saw anyone fitting that description," they admit. "But we could go out looking, if you'd like."

"No, thank you," Ezio says. He will have better luck with Eagle Vision. "I'll keep looking myself." He pays them a few coins, regardless. Never pays well to short-change thieves, after all.

He continues over Ponte Sisto, eying for a moment a spot where the man had obviously stopped, near the stone railing, to take in the scenery. Ezio looks over the Tiber river, wondering, and then turns to keep following the trail. It is glowing a little brighter now – he thinks he must be catching up.

And then the path meanders again. Into the alleys, back to main street and then to another alley – and then up the side of a church and to the roof. Considering the amount of _looking_ his quarry seems to be doing, it's obvious they are new to the city. Perhaps that is why they meander – they keep losing their way in the crowded streets and alleys of Rome.

And then the path leads to a guild house – _his_ guild's house. It's not the main hideout, only one of the old Borgia Watch Towers turned into a way house for his Assassins – though the Borgia are gone now, few assassins live there still, enjoying the relative privacy of having their own place, so to speak.

The black hooded man had walked right to the door, and then away from it again.

Ezio frowns, tracing his hand over the steel reinforced door of the hideout and then looks the way the steps continue. How had he known? Had he seen an assassin making their way there, or was it a coincidence? Why come so close – had he tried to get in but failed to open the lock? And if he did not intend to go in, why come so close at all? Perhaps he'd heard someone inside and become wary.

Ezio drops his hands and continues his hunt. It leads north – not towards Tiber Island, which at least is a relief. More meandering, slow and increasingly aimless – there is no logic to the way the man is taking, it seems, he's only wandering, seeing the sights like a newcomer. He must be walking slow, because his path grows more and more recent, until finally…

Ezio comes to the square of the Pantheon and there he sees the man, his eyes drawn immediately to his golden glow across the square. Letting the Eagle's Eyes close, Ezio blinks until his eyes get used to daylight again and then he looks, curious, at the man. He's sitting across the square on a wooden bench, watching the crowd milling about the Pantheon from under his black, beaked hood.

Ezio adjusts his cape and makes his way towards the man. On his search for him, he has encountered no signs of violence or disturbance, the man has done nothing ill so far, only wandered. The fact that he might have opened the Vault door does not make him a villain, only suspicious. There is no need to approach him in hostility.

The man looks up, the side of his hood creasing slightly – but all of his face Ezio can see is the short beard, streaked with white – and a scar that cuts across it, leaving patch of his moustache without hair. The man is watching him now, aware of him, Ezio can feel it – but he doesn't get up, doesn't move. Behind his shoulder Ezio can see the barrel of a firearm, strange in design, but he doesn't move to reach it.

Ezio walks over and then, as if it was all he wanted to do, sits down beside him. For a moment, there is silence between them, the man watching him from the shadows of his hood while Ezio scans the crowd automatically to make sure he has not been spotted. But of course he wasn't. No one is looking for him, anymore.

It would take some getting used to, he thinks ruefully, not being hunted in this city anymore.

Beside him, the man sighs. "Your city is beautiful," he says quietly in oddly accented Italian. Foreigner then, but not Spanish – nor French for that matter, the accent is off.

"Thank you, brother – though I fear I can't claim credit," Ezio says, tilting his head enough to look at the man. He's looking away, at the crowd again. "You're not surprised to see me."

"I've seen others wearing that robe in the city," the man says. "You're not terribly subtle."

Ezio refuses to take insult for that, giving the man a crooked smile instead. "We don't aim to be," he says, and takes in the man's gear.

It's not precisely leather armour the man wears – more of a leather robe, really, sleeveless and reaching near his knees. Under it his clothing is wool – his sleeves and his hood are part of the same piece of clothing, and Ezio can see some of it's hem from under the tails of the sleeveless leather over robe. There's no sash, though, no belt – instead the leather robe has pounces sewn into it, at the chest and by the hips. No sword on his belt, but he does carry a knife with a strange handle, and an odd looking musket at the right side of his waist – next to a waterskin.

Ezio can't see hidden blades – but he can _feel them_. He can also feel that what he can see at a glance is not all there is. The man is certainly well armed.

"What brings you to Rome, brother?" Ezio asks, turning his eyes ahead and eying the crowd instead.

The man sighs and doesn't answer at first, bowing his head a little. "I'm no danger to you or yours," he says then. "You have nothing to fear from me."

It's not particularly comforting that the man feels _this_ is what he should start with. Ezio leans forward a little until he can rest his elbows on his knees. "I appreciate the assurance, but it's not an answer," he says.

"No," the man agrees. "I suppose it isn't."

Ezio waits and then looks at him again. With his body angled forward his view point is lower and he can see the man's eyes now. He's not as old as the grey in his beard would imply – there are very few wrinkles by his eyes. His features are long and tanned, the skin on his cheeks slightly coarse as if he's spent too long in sun. under the hood, his hair is shorn very short – it too is streaked with silver grey. No tattoos on his face.

The man looks at him, his expression calm but a little tired. He smiles slightly and it suits his face comfortably, it matches the creases around his eyes. A man who smiles often, then.

Ezio relaxes a little. "You came from the Coliseum," he says, feeling there is no point beating around the bush. "For reasons I cannot say, that makes me a little wary. Why were you there?"

The man's smile turns rueful and he looks up, at the Pantheon. "Well, that explains how you found me, I suppose," he muses. "I did come from the Coliseum, yes. I came from the Vault."

Ezio blinks and says nothing, watching him, waiting for him to continue.

"I didn't mean to come here," the man says, shaking his head. "I was supposed to go… elsewhere, but she tricked me. Again," he sighs and lets out a small laugh. "Well it doesn't matter, I suppose. I'm here now, and I'm afraid I'm here to stay."

"Explain, please," Ezio says, frowning a little.

The man leans back a little. "How about an introduction, instead? Might explain things better, actually," he says and holds out his hand. "My name is Desmond Miles."

Ezio lifts his head and looks at the man. It's been… seven years now since he heard that name, _Desmond._  It's lingered in his mind, rising and falling every now and then like a tide, along with the words _you anchor him_ and _you are the Prophet, you have played your part._

Such a strange, mysterious warning, delivered by such a strange, mysterious being. Even Monteriggioni's destruction and the loss of all he'd built hadn't been enough to wipe it from his mind – it had stayed, as if imbedded in his memory, unwilling to fade like most memories did. To this day, years later, it remains so clear.

_The rest is up to you, Desmond._

There is no deceit in the man's face, no trickery in sight – he only smiles, his eyes calm, if wryly amused. His hand is a little scarred with work worn calluses on his palm. His grip is reassuringly firm and warm.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze, it's… an honour, I think," Ezio says quietly, still watching the man's face, gripping his hand. "You know me, don't you?"

"Yes, I know you," the man chuckles and shakes his hand, once, twice, and then releases his grip. "I don't know how to begin to explain how, but I know you," he says and then his smile turns crooked. "This is going to sound very weird but… can you tell me what day it is, Ezio? What year?"

"May the third, 1507," Ezio says slowly.

Desmond frowns a little, thinking. "Ah, after Cesare Borgia's death," he murmurs. "And after you sealed the Apple away. Of course," he says and sighs. "Safely out of harm's way."

The words seem to make little sense, unless… "This is not your time," Ezio says, "is it?"

He'd felt it, in Minerva's Temple under the Sistine Chapel. He felt the outpouring of time, of centuries passing, crossed over in an instant. Minerva, tens of thousands of years in the past – and _Desmond_ , somewhere far away, somewhere in the future, watching through him. He'd not understood it fully, feared he never would, but he'd glimpsed the vastness of time through Minerva's warning. It had left him too humbled to think of it further, but for a while he thought…

Desmond is a being not in the present – but in the future. And Ezio was only a conduit for a message meant for him – and with that done, his destiny was complete.

Now Desmond gives him a somewhat surprised look and then looks relieved. "Thank god," he says and then lets out a little laugh. "I had no idea how to even begin explaining it, but – you understand already, don't you?" he says and he looks almost fond.

Ezio shakes his head. "I don't at all," he admits, watching him closely. "But I feel it is the truth; you are not from this time, are you?"

"No, I'm from the future," Desmond agrees and shakes his head. "I'm not sure how much I can safely tell you but… I'm not sure it matters, at this point," he admits. "Juno put me in this time for a reason – I don't think I can affect the future much form here."

"Juno," Ezio says and lifts his head a little. "The Goddess from the Coliseum vault?"

"I'm afraid she is not on our side," Desmond says and folds his arms, thinking about it. Then he casts a look at Ezio. "I can tell you about her, but I'm not sure it matters right now, the inside conflicts of the Precursors and why Juno tricked me. I'm afraid it doesn't make much of a difference anymore."

"Tell me anyway, please," Ezio says quickly. If this man really is the one Minerva spoke to, then perhaps finally Ezio would have answers. If not, then he would know this to be trickery and this Desmond false.

Beside him, the black hooded man bows his head a little at that. "I guess you deserve to know," he says and sighs. "How much have you figured out of the Precursors, the Ones That Came Before? Minerva told you some, but… do you remember? What she said about humans?"

Ezio shivers. So, no question about it then – this is indeed the Desmond Minerva spoke of, the one Juno spoke of. Only that way he could know these things. "I couldn't possibly forget," he murmurs and looks away. "Every word she said is branded into my memory, I could recite it word for word if you wished. She claimed they made us, in their image, and we betrayed them we waged war and so failed to notice the heavens?"

"Nicely put on her part," Desmond agrees wryly. "We humans were their slaves, once, before the war, they made us to be their slaves," he says, and closes his eyes. "That's why the Apple works as well as it does – it was designed for it. It wasn't a betrayal on our part, it was a rebellion. Humans just wanted to be free."

Ezio frowns. "I…" he trails away, and clenches his hands together. He's used the Apple on numerous occasions, and every time he felt…  something that felt terribly right and wrong at the same time. How easy it was to bend people to his will with it, as if it was built for it. As if people were built for it. His mind had shied away from it, but… there was a reason why the Templars wanted the Pieces of Eden, and it wasn't because they were pretty.

It's the same reason why Ezio sealed it away.

"Minerva was on our side in that conflict, I think, or at least she sympathised with us," Desmond continues. "Juno, not so much. She wants to return to that time. The temples Minerva spoke of, Juno controls the main one, the Grand Temple, the greatest they ever built. It was what I was supposed to use to save the world from the Solar Flare – the catastrophe that scorched the earth back in their time, and then later, in mine."

Ezio looks at him warily but says nothing. Bitter, Desmond continues.

"I failed to activate it," he says. "I just failed in my Precursor appointed duty. The Earth burned – five hundred years from now, twenty years in my past."

"You failed," Ezio repeats.

"I failed," Desmond agrees and glances at him. "It took me twenty years to figure out how to try and reverse it – to go back and change it and try again. And Juno was there to tamper with that attempt. Instead of the three or so decades I meant to travel, I'm here. Five hundred years too early. "

For a moment Ezio just stares at him, taking in the bitter resignation on the man's face. "Why would she want to stop you?" he asks then. "All this effort for you to get the warning – why would they stop you?"

"I guess she didn't, precisely," Desmond muses. "From this time I can probably set in motion events that will ensure that it won't fail again – that in future, they won't fail to activate the temple. But I won't be able to do anything about _her_ from here. She resides in the Grand Temple – if it's activated, she'll be free to do as she will. She got me quite neatly out of the way."

Ezio eyes him silently for a moment and then looks away. It's quite a lot to take in and probably more than he really comprehends, but the honesty and openness with which the man speaks is… reassuring in a most terrible way. It's the honesty and answers he'd wished for, but now that he has it, he's not sure what to do with it.

Desmond humms. "In either case," he says and pushes himself up to his feet with a sigh. "You have nothing to fear from me. The Apple can stay where it is, the Vault can stay sealed, I will do nothing about them. A version of me needs to find them in the future, after all."

Ezio stands up as well, straightening his cape as he does. Desmond stands before him, still hooded and somewhat strange in his black robes – they are startlingly simple in design, now that Ezio looks at them as something _from the future_. The stitching of his sleeveless leather robe is neat and precise but the woollen under robe looks hand knitted, rather than something made from a weaved fabric. The only thing that seems beyond the time are Desmond's weapons, the firearms he carries – they are easily beyond anything Ezio seen before. The bag he carries is a little odd, perhaps – larger than Ezio had expected, with many pouches built into it.

The man is, though strangely dressed perhaps, obviously capable and well geared – and if he survived the future end of the world, he must be skilled as well. Ezio is suddenly certain that the only reason he could find him is because the man was not trying to hide.

"What will you do now?" Ezio asks.

Desmond chuckles. "I have no idea," he admits. "Accumulate funds so that I can travel to the New World, maybe. I need to leave a warning for the future where it will be found at the right time – New World is the place to do it. I'm in no hurry, though," he says, amused. "I have five hundred years to get this right, now."

"Are you going to live that long?" Ezio asks, giving him a wondering look.

"God, I hope not," Desmond says with a rueful laugh.

Ezio hums, eying him. He still has many questions, especially considering that the man comes from the future – he must know many, many things. And he doesn't seem against sharing his knowledge either… "I would like to extend to you the hospitality of my Brotherhood," Ezio says. "If you might be in need of a place to stay." Considering the wandering the man had done around Rome, he doesn't seem to have any place in particular to go to.

"Oh?" Desmond asks, surprised. "Really?"

"You are an Assassin yourself, aren't you?" Ezio asks, looking him over. He might not wear their symbol visibly, but the hood is a clear sign of the brotherhood – only Assassins wear hoods in that particular design. Never mind the leap of faith from the Coliseum.

"… I suppose I am, at that," Desmond admits, thoughtful and a little hesitant.

"Then the Brotherhood welcomes you, Desmond," Ezio say and bows his head slightly. "Please."

Desmond considers him and then nods his head. "In that case, I'll be happy to accept. Thank you, Ezio."


	3. Chapter 3

> _Things became so simple, in the worst way. So much of our daily needs went out of the window and everything got condensed to the basic necessities. Shelter, warmth, food, water. Some of those things we had at the_ _Grand_ _Temple_ _, but it wasn't enough and we couldn't live there indefinitely. Our stores wouldn't last forever._
> 
> _Those who survived the first few years did it mostly by scavenging the ruins. A lot of what we had was lost, but seven billion people build and need a lot and by luck some of it survived. Every so often you could find a store or a crashed truck or a warehouse that was only partially burnt. Seven times out of ten what was in there was ruined and rotten, but every once in a while you struck gold – and a truck full of dry goods or cans can feed a group of four a long time._
> 
> _We thought early on we could use those few houses left the same way, scavenging and squatting our way to survival – just pick a good house that hadn't been too badly damaged and settle down in it, live in relative comfort and accumulate supplies… but the houses of Turin or most anywhere in New York weren't built for the winter we got. Without electricity or gas there was no easy way to heat most of the surviving houses and firewood was almost as rare as clean water. And then the snow. Shaun counted that we got four metres of it that first winter, and it did little to help the water situation either – for nearly five years snow came down grey and irradiated. There was no way to turn it into clean drinking water._
> 
> _It made farming damn hard later on, but that came later, much later._
> 
> _What the fires and the earthquakes hadn't gotten to, the winter finished. The snow broke the roofs of houses and the ground frost cracked the ground beneath them. Scavenging became harder and harder as the snow piled. It became colder and colder…_
> 
> _Yeah. There was no space for our first world needs and desires anymore. Sure, we tried to get radios working, contact the outside world as it were, figure out what had happened elsewhere and it there was any sort of effort being made by_ anyone, _if there were any refugee camps or anything out there, but… if there was anything left of the United States, we never heard of it._
> 
> _There were survivors, of course. Lucky people who got underground, into basements, tunnels, sewers and the like, which then didn't collapse on them. There were also some rare ones who survived in particularly strong houses on the ground above only to die of radiation poisoning later. Humanity survived._
> 
> _But it was a long long time before we could do more than that._

* * *

 

Ezio watches quietly as Desmond takes in his hideout and his Brotherhood. There is a look of weary wonder on the man's face and a hint of nostalgia – he knows these halls, somehow, despite never having set a foot in them. He's smiling still, a settled and calm sort of smile, but it looks almost pained now.

"This place is incredible," the man says, his eyes lingering on the doorway leading to the painting gallery. "You must be proud."

Ezio folds his arms and considers the hall. Ermanno is there with Candida – she had been showing him a move with her hidden blade, but now they are both not so discreetly watching them. Behind them stands a desk and pair of bookshelves, filled to the brim with books and scrolls, some of them new to his eyes – they'd need to designate a room for a library soon. There's also a fully stocked medical cupboard in the entrance hall, just in case, along with a work table for equipment maintenance beside it – across the hall there is another table, strewn with maps, mission scrolls, couple of empty pigeon cages sitting at the very end.

Beyond the entrance hall is the armoury, fully stocked now, all the stands displaying various armours Ezio and his students have worn over the years. There is a hall leading to the bedrooms, the kitchen and dining room, and another that leads to the upper level, where Ezio's office is, where they keep their records, their secrets. A lot of rooms that had been storage rooms have found new purposes now.

Desmond is only eying the painting gallery, though.

"Yes, I have cause to be proud" Ezio agrees and lets his hands drop to his sides, making a few leading steps towards the gallery, waiting until he's sure that the man is following and then stepping through the doorway. "Some of what we have there might be considered frivolous, for a brotherhood of Assassins, but…"

There isn't a single wall in the gallery without an artwork upon it. Their lives are so hard and ugly by necessity, that from the very beginning Ezio had made sure there was always something beautiful to look at in the hideout. It is the most important lesson he learned from his mother, he thinks, about being an assassin. They have so many outlets for their violent tendencies – more delicate and graceful things are needed to balance it out.

How well his students appreciate the effort he has put into not only collecting art for them to see but making some of his own, Ezio isn't sure. But he likes to think the place is at least not a detriment to his brotherhood.

Looking at Desmond now, as he stares around with the look of mingled wonder and nostalgia, Ezio decides that yes, it is worth having put all the money on things other than blades and armour alone.

"It has been a while since I've seen art," Desmond admits quietly. "Other than pictures, anyway. Do you mind if I…?"

"Go ahead," Ezio says, motioning him to move around freely, and he does. Almost meditatively, Desmond steps closer to the nearest painting and looks at it, silent and attentive. It's a good long while before he moves to another.

Candida and Ermanno sneak to Ezio's side while Desmond is examining the Vision of a Knight. "Mentore?" Candida says quietly and bows her head. "Welcome back, we've missed you."

"Hello Candida," Ezio says, looking her over. "How went your mission in Venice?"

"It was successful, Mentore – and I delivered you a letter from a woman named Rosa, it is in your office," Candida says and then casts a glance at Desmond in his black hood and leather. "Um, I would hate to pry, Mentore, but – it is rare that we get guests here."

"It is, yes," Ezio agrees – Leonardo is nowadays the only one not inducted into the Brotherhood who visits them. "He is a friend, no need to worry," Ezio says and looks at Desmond. He doesn't need to look at the man with Eagle's Eyes to know he's an ally – he can feel it in his bones. "He is going to be staying with us a while. And I hope we can make him feel welcome," Ezio adds, pointedly.

"Yes – of course. We will ready a room for him," Candida says and hesitates. She is a former prostitute and so not quite as shy as Ermanno, who is trying to draw her away, looking panicked. "But _who_ is he? Is he from Spain?"

"A little further than that, I'm afraid," Desmond himself says and glances at them with a smile. "You can call me Desmond."

Ezio tilts his head towards the man with surprise. He isn't sure he himself would have shared the man's name, it carrying some significance and being known by some. Machiavelli alone would find it highly suspicious, and Ezio isn't looking forward to when the man finds out about this.

Desmond meets his eyes and tilts his head in turn, smiling crookedly with his eyes in shadow and turning away, to look at the painting again.

"He's a fellow assassin from far away," Ezio says to his students. "And we will be nice for him, won't we, Candida?"

Candida hesitates and then nods. "Of course," she says and smiles the smile of angels that hide the hearts of demons. "As you wish, Mentore."

"I do wish it," Ezio says, pointed. "Now off with you. Go prepare a room for our guest – and check the pantry for me, please."

"Oh?" Candida asks, going very still while Ermanno perks up behind her.

"Yes," Ezio says, snorting a little wryly at this instant reaction and recognition. "I think I am going to cook tonight. Now go, get."

"Yes, Mentore," Candida says with an actual bow, Ermanno doing the same before they both all but dash out of the room. Sometimes, Ezio swears they are all ten years younger than they actually are – like children, at times.

Sad side effect of recruiting so many orphans, perhaps.

"I didn't know you could cook," Desmond says, not looking at him.

"Not to the standards of my mother, maybe, but can manage not to burn what I make on a good day," Ezio says. "I have been away for a while, and I like to sit down with my students after long absences. I hope you will join us. I have no notion about what precisely there is to be made, they tend to get lax about filling the pantry while I'm away, but…"

Desmond clears his throat. "I – would love to join you," he says. "Thank you."

Ezio nods, wondering at the hesitancy in his voice. Desmond clears his throat again and turns away, to another painting. He tilts his head, curious, and Ezio steps closer to him. "That's Cesare Borgia," he says, looking up to the painting. "I don't know if you know who he was, but he was enemy of ours for many years."

"I know who he was," Desmond says, nodding. "What I don't understand is why you have a portrait of him. You have all the Borgias here," he says and casts a glance around. "I always thought it was something the Animus… hm."

Ezio tilts his head. "The Animus?"

"A device – a machine. It's how I watched you. It could… twist reality at times, though, so I was never fully certain of what actually happened and what was its addition. Honestly did not think these particular portraits were real," Desmond admits and looks at him. "They're beautiful paintings, though," he offers, still sounding a little confused.

"Thank you," Ezio says, smiling faintly, and looks up to the portrait of Cesare. It is by far the best he'd made so far – even Leonardo had given him compliments on the detail of the armour, how right he got the lighting there… even though he had mangled perspective and anatomy a little, apparently. "It's not quite as good as the work by Raphael, but I think I did well enough."

"You – you painted these?" Desmond asks.

"I did, yes," Ezio admits and looks at him. "You sound shocked."

"I am a little," Desmond admits with a quiet, apologetic laugh. "I'm sorry, I just… I didn't realise. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Ezio says, amused. "I suppose an Assassin seems like a strange artist," he muses. "My mother insisted her children to have some education in arts, and since I haven't the ear for music, I had painters for teachers."

For some reason, Desmond's smile widens at that and he turns quickly away, hiding it.

"What?" Ezio asks, giving him a look.

"I – I'm sorry, I have heard you sing, through the Animus," he says. "You're good at improvising rhymes at least."

Ezio frowns, trying to recall the last time he might've done something like that. In Venice, maybe – and completely drunk. He would have to be, to humiliate himself that way. "That Animus of yours must be one powerful machine," he mutters. "What else have you seen?"

"Not everything, obviously – I never saw you paint," Desmond says and looks up to the portrait again. "It's beautiful work. Do you paint other things than your enemies?"

"Not really," Ezio admits, peering upwards as well. "I rarely have the time for such activities and it takes a particular motivation for me to see through a painting."

"Ah," Desmond says, nodding like he understands. Maybe he does. "It's a beautiful work," he says.

"He's dead now," Ezio says, nodding at the portrait. "I've just come back from Spain, where I killed him."

"I see," Desmond says quietly and makes no further comment on that. Ezio bows his head a little, eying Cesare just from under the edge of his hood.

Seven years – it's hard to believe it's over, finally. Of the Borgia only Lucrezia still lives, and she wouldn't be a threat with her father and brothers gone. The whole thing is over now. Seven years and his losses are finally avenged.

"I wish I could show you the collection I had in my home, in Monteriggioni," Ezio muses. "It was a much more varied than this one. I had works from many artists, from Botticelli, and even Verrocchio."

"I know," Desmond answers. "By da Vinci too. Honestly, I'm not sure I could take it," he murmurs and rubs at his chest. "We lost all of this," he answers. "All of them, they all burned, all the works by great artists, they all just burned and –" he stops and bows his head.

Ezio casts him a concerned look, seeing the man's throat work as he swallows dryly. "I'm sorry," he offers. "I – suppose you lost a lot."

"No, I'm sorry – I'm being stupid. It doesn't matter now, shouldn't matter now," Desmond says and draws a shaking breath. "I've never even seen any works like these in my _life_ , they were all cloistered in museums and art galleries and such. I don't know why it's affecting me so badly. Never mind me."

Ezio looks him over, taking in the slightly pinched quality to the corner of his eye, like he's straining to hold something back. "It's not stupid," he says and looks up again. "I think art is essential and self expression is vital to understanding and enjoying life. I cannot even imagine what it might be like, if all of it was lost." How dreary it would be.

Desmond nods, clearing his throat but saying nothing.

"Would you like a drink?" Ezio offers then, thinking it might calm the man's obviously troubled mind.

"Oh, please," Desmond says with a sigh. "If it's no trouble."

"None at all – please, this way. I may investigate the state of our pantry in the meanwhile."

Desmond nods and then with a last, troubled and longing glance around the art gallery, he follows Ezio out of it. As reluctant as he seems to leave the room, he seems also a little relieved, straightening his shoulders and neck again once they are out of Cesare's painted and yet still forbidding gaze.

There are more than Candida and Ermanno in the kitchen when they arrive – Valeria is there with Bettina and Zeno is hurriedly making a fire in the oven while Bettina is adding charcoal into the stove – apparently, they had not even bothered to maintain the fires while he was gone.

"Mentore!" Bettina chirps happily. "Welcome back!"

"Welcome back, Mentore," Zeno adds, more quiet, and ducks his head as Ezio looks at him, adding another log into the oven.

"Students," Ezio says. "What's the state of the pantry then?"

Candida and Valeria exchange looks and Ermanno shuffles his weight awkwardly from one foot to another. Answer enough, Ezio muses, and sighs, taking his money pouch. "Someone is heading to the market then," he says and considers. It would take time for the stove to heat up and longer still to tease the heat into steady temperature… so anything in the oven would be out of question. The stove seems to be in better heat, though. Something on the stovetop then.

He sends Ermanno and Bettina off with a list to bring and enough coin to cover it all, before going to check the pantry. "Someone get me a bottle of red wine from the cellar," he says while going through what's there. Not much, but they do have some garlic and cheese at least, that would do for a bit. Judging by the crumbs all over the place, his students have been surviving on bread mostly these last few weeks.

"Clean this mess up – this is a pantry, not a barn," he says to the nearest of his hovering students and with a sigh Candida goes to get a broom. Ezio harrumphs and then checks the dishes. Well, at least the plates look clean. Cups, not so much. "Do you know how much money I spent to get water to this hideout?" Ezio asks his students. "Valeria, Zeno, go fetch some – you're washing the cups."

"But Mentore – "

"And the plates," Ezio adds, pointedly. "Should I inspect the silverware as well?"

Desmond is watching with some interest as Valeria and Zeno trundle off, dejectedly, to fetch water from the sewer underneath the hideout. Ezio sighs. "My students are animals," he says to the man. "I'm gone for barely two months and this is the result."

"Obviously you should never leave, Mentore," Candida says sweetly, as she sweeps the pantry floor.

"Or never _return_ ," Ezio says flatly. "Since this is the welcome I get."

She pouts and gets back to work.

Desmond chuckles quietly. "Anything I can do for you, Mentore?" he asks, sounding amused.

"Yes," Ezio says and holds out the bottle. "You can open this, and taste test it for me."

Desmond smiles a little wider and takes out the strangest tool from a pouch on his leather robe – a small, strange assortment of metal bits, tightly bound in black covers. He flips one of them over – and it turns into a corkscrew.

Ezio eyes the tool with interest – it has so many strange bits in it – but then decides, later. Shaking his head, he goes to check the fire in the oven and then peers at the stove. The fire there is in better shape, it seems – they'd probably had it going recently to heat water. That's something. Then Ezio checks the pots and pans, just in case. They are clean, of course – he doubts anyone has even touched them since he left.

Maybe he has spoiled his students in this, letting them dedicate themselves solely to their training and completely ignore all other earthly concerns. Perhaps in the future he would rope them to helping him by the stove – and maybe even have them cook for a change. They're all smart men and women, they could manage it… after burning their dinner a few times, maybe.

Desmond moves around the kitchen, finding a clean goblet somewhere, and though Ezio isn't looking at him, he finds himself strangely aware of the man's every movement. All people have a presence to them, an Aura that is revealed under the gaze of the Eagle's Eyes, but Desmond's seems… greater. Or perhaps Ezio is only  more watchful of him. It almost seems like he can see the man without looking anywhere near him.

He can hear Desmond pour the wine, though there is a break before he drinks, his breath echoing against the glass, then his swallow – and sigh. "Oh, that's _sweet_ ," he murmurs very softly.

Ezio glances at him, takes in the way the man breathes in the scent of the wine, his eyes shut in soft, wondrous enjoyment. Wine, Ezio thinks, like art, must be one of the things Desmond had lost to fire. The way the man sips the wine belies the rarity of the drink for him – he savours every little gulp almost desperately.

It makes something in Ezio's chest clench. It's not even a very good wine, judging by the label – barely a year old and from a no-name brewery.

Candida finishes in the pantry, setting the broom aside. "Anything else, Mentore?" she asks.

"Go make sure the dining hall is neat and then lay out cutlery and what plates and cups are clean," Ezio says, clearing his throat, and taking out a pan. "How many are in the hideout right now?" he asks.

"Aside from who you saw here, Mino and Ghita are home too – though they are out, Ghita headed to La Volpe Addormentata the last I heard," Candida says.

So eleven, if Machiavelli would deign to eat with them. Ezio sets the pan down and chooses a bigger one. "Once you're done with the dining room, go find them and let them know we're all eating together tonight," he says.

Candida bows and then, with a last glance at Desmond, she's gone.

"I never realised how domestic things are here," the dark-clad man comments. "That you cook for them," he adds.

Ezio glances at him sharply, but the man doesn't sound or look derisive – only amused and thoughtful. Awkward, Ezio clears his throat. "It's not as if we can have many servants here," he says. "And I can't think it a bad thing. It is called a Brotherhood, after all – a sort of family cohesion can only be to our benefit."

He tries to gauge the man's reaction, but it's hard, Desmond is only smiling and if there is some sort of disdain to his thoughts, Ezio can't tell. The man sips his wine and then sets the bottle down. "It's nice," he says. "It's really nice."

"How are things in your – brotherhood?" Ezio asks, instead of saying _time_. He can hear footsteps heading their way – Valeria and Zeno coming back with the water."

Desmond hesitates. "We all tried to take your example," he says. "Some with better luck than others, I'm afraid."

Ezio casts him a curious look, but his students enter the kitchen then, and he keeps the question to himself. "Fill this pot here and then gather the dishes and wash them thoroughly – we'll need eleven sets," Ezio tells them.

"But the water is cold," Zeno says, even while pouring some of the water into the cooking pot for him.

"I wonder why that might be?" Ezio agrees pointedly, while getting the pasta from the pantry.

"We would have had some prepared if we'd known you were coming," Valeria says, wincing.

Ezio gives her a look. Is his presence the only thing that keeps this hideout presentable? Good lord, let Claudia never learn of that – she would never let him live it down.

Between his students, he gets the kitchen and the dishware into serviceable condition, Valeria setting the table in the dining room while Ezio without mercy ropes Zeno into minding the pasta – just in time for Ermanno and Bettina to come back with the purchases. Not much in way of fresh vegetables, some asparagus and late artichokes, not enough to store, but they would have to do for tonight. And thankfully this time his students even managed to actually procure a prepared chicken and not a live one like the last time.

"No, don't go anywhere," Ezio says to them before they can slink away. "You're helping me with this. Get knives and the cutting boards – you are learning how to prepare a chicken for broth, now. "

Desmond watches on, amused. Something about the man's previous bout of troubled tension seems to have eased away, though whether it is the nonsense of Ezio's students or the wine helping him there, it's hard to say. He seems more settled and calm again, which sets something in Ezio's heart at ease.

Somehow, the troubled sorrow from before does not suit Desmond in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're still wondering what this fic is about, it's about Desmond healing and Ezio being a dad. Basically. I just wanna write older Desmond and Ezio and Assassin domesticity.
> 
> And also the end of the world, on the side.


	4. Chapter 4

> _It was almost seven months before we made contact with anyone. A doomsday prepper who survived in his bunker – like most everyone, he too had lost all of his electronics and so hasn't had a radio to use until the snows melted enough for him to scavenge and look for useable spare parts. He was our first contact with the outside – and like us, he was the last survivor in his area._
> 
> _We could barely understand a word he said over the radio, he was crying so hard. Seven months trapped in a bunker with no human contact will do that to you._
> 
> _He wasn't the only one. By summer – not that we got much of a summer in 2013 – we knew we couldn't stay in_ _Turin_ _. The houses were ruined or burnt, there was nothing left to scavenge after winter and we were out of firewood. We needed a place with a forest and maybe water, though none of us held much hope for that one. Wherever we would settle, it would have to have a little bit of everything – shelter, something for heating and ocean access. With rivers mostly gone, lakes dried out and hunting pretty much impossible, ocean might be the only source of food left until we got farming going on. That was Shaun's argument anyway, the one that won the day._
> 
> _I think he could see the furthest ahead of all of us. Ocean access means trade, after all, though it was too early to be thinking that._
> 
> _On our way to the cost – and it was a long way on foot and occasionally on bicycles – we stopped by every village, every town, every city and spent time scavenging and looking and hoping. This was before plants returned in force and everything was desolate and lifeless, there was nothing but ruin and rubble. It wasn't as pleasant as scavenging is today. That first summer, nothing grew. In most cities there was nothing left. In some…_
> 
> _In some, there were survivors. One or two here and there, but enough to hope, enough to be thankful for. The most we found was in the old school near_ _Manchester_ _, a group of teenagers who'd been playing in their school's bomb cellar and by complete dumb luck survived. Five 16 year olds. They were like a miracle._
> 
> _We made it to the coast in company of nearly twenty. I think it was beyond what anyone could've hoped at that point, with all the destruction we were seeing but at the same time… how many people lived near the coast, and how many had been lost that twenty people could feel like many?_
> 
> _Most of the people we met and who joined us are dead now. Radiation exposure shortened everyone's lifespan by twenty to thirty years. Most of us will die of cancer and tumours. Many already have._
> 
> _Not me, though, thanks to the Precursors genetic blessings. Not me._

* * *

 

Desmond seems content to stay silent as Ezio conducts his students in the art of cooking – not that the end result is very art like. Zeno overcooks the pasta and the broth ends up a little too runny, but no one seems to mind terribly as they carry pots and pans and bread basket and cheese and everything else to the dining hall.

"Apologies for the mess," Ezio says while motioning him to the dining hall. "It's not usually this bad here."

"Please, I don't mind," Desmond says. "I'm only sorry I wasn't very useful."

"You're a guest – what kind of host would I be if I put my guests to work?" Ezio asks.

"A pragmatic one, but I see your point," Desmond says.

At least the dining hall had been made presentable. There are full sets of plates and cutlery and clean cups for every seat – they even lit brand new candles, just for the occasion. The dinner might be so and so, but Ezio thinks he has little to feel ashamed about the presentation.

"Has anyone informed Machiavelli?" Ezio asks.

"I'm here," the man himself says as he enters the dining hall. "And I see you have been busy, Ezio," he comments and looks at Desmond.

"Busier cleaning up after this lot," Ezio murmurs, and then clasps Ermanno on the shoulder when the young man slumps in shame. "It's alright. Now, everyone, Machiavelli," Ezio says to catch their attention and motions to Desmond. "This is Desmond Miles, he's going to be staying in the hideout for some time and I hope you make him feel welcome."

Machiavelli's eyes narrow, while Desmond bows his head slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you all," he says and sounds like he means it.

"Let me introduce everyone," Ezio says and then runs down the list of his recruits, the ones present, anyway. "Candida and Ermanno you already met in the art gallery," he adds, and the pair nods in greeting. Then Ezio motions to Machiavelli. "And this is Niccolo Machiavelli, he's been leading the Brotherhood in my absence."

"That is a very interesting name, Desmond. It's not Spanish, is it?" Machiavelli asks, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"Irish, I think," Desmond says calmly.

"Is that where you're from?"

"No, though I hear it's a lovely country."

Ezio clears his throat before this can become a full on interrogation. "Sit down, everyone, and let's eat," he says. "Before it gets cold."

They sit, Machiavelli still eying Desmond with suspicious interest. Desmond endures it with good humour, it seems, so Ezio decides not to make mention of it – there would be words enough later, judging by Machiavelli's glance.

"Mentor, will you tell us about your journey in Spain?" Bettina asks. "You saw the Battle of Viana – was it really as horrific as they say?"

"Worse, likely, though I haven't heard what they've said," Ezio says while reaching for the pasta and opening the dinner. "Cesare's forces slaughtered every man, woman and likely child of that town, or very nearly – I'm now sorry I did not leave for Spain sooner, maybe some of the massacre could have been avoided."

Desmond casts him a look while everyone else, including – or considering his bloodthirsty nature when it comes to the Borgia family, _especially_ – Machiavelli leans forward, obviously expecting a longer anecdote. So, while motioning the others to serve themselves, Ezio launches into a retelling of his journey, first the ship voyage to Navarre and then the crossing from there to Viana, and what he has seen of Spain during the trip. Most of his students had never been, yet – though some had, completing missions as far as in Lisbon.

"Their forces had just broken through the castle's defences and moved to capture it when I reached the town," Ezio continues, leaning back in his seat and watching as everyone settles down with a plateful of food – good, there was enough for everyone. "It had came down to swords when I found Cesare on the battlements."

"Could he have won the fight and captured the castle?" Machiavelli asks. "I heard the battle was a losing one for his forces."

"It was a close one, but I think he might have taken the day," Ezio says, thinking back. "His men were the better experienced of the fighters and blindly loyal. Cesare was certainly confident of his victory."

"And how did he die?" Machiavelli asks and most everyone leans forward, hard, merciless eagerness in their faces.

Ezio eyes them. All his students were rescued from Borgia hands, all of them have grievances and grudges. Rodrigo's death had been too easy for many of them, too quick – he had not gotten neither the pain nor the humiliation some of them likely thought he deserved. Ezio had done his best to teach his students respect at the face of an enemy's death, like Mario had once taught him… but this was personal for them all.

"It was a long battle, and never once did he stay silent," Ezio says quietly, thinking back. "He must have gone mad with the loss of his status in Rome – the things he spouted were ludicrous. He thought to become king of Italia and bend all other nations to his will. At the very end, he even claimed no man could kill him, as if by divine right to rule he was made invincible."

He scoffs, partially amused and also a little bit regretful. "So I left him in the hands of fate," he says to his students. "And let him fall off the battlements. Fate did not save him from meeting the ground."

There's a collective sigh as everyone takes this in. Ezio gives them a wry look and shakes his head, a little embarrassed for himself now – what a time to prove a point. Well, Cesare is dead now, that is what counts – and from what he's heard, only due to an accident, rather than Assassin. That suits him just fine.

Ezio casts a glance at Desmond, who is slowly winding strings of pasta around the prongs of his fork. Having no emotional investment in the matter, the man doesn't seem particularly moved by the retelling. If he disapproves it, Ezio can't quite tell.

"Of all the Borgia, Lucrezia is the only one who still lives," Machiavelli says after a while.

"And as far as I'm concerned, she can continue living," Ezio says. "She is nothing without her father and brother, and with the Borgia disgraced, she no longer has any power to be a threat."

"One could say that it doesn't matter – she to has a list of crimes she ought to pay for," Machiavelli says. "She is far from guileless."

Ezio hums but doesn't answer. Almost seven years ago now, he's broken into the Castel Sant'Angelo and taken Lucrezia Borgia as a hostage for a brief time – and the things she's said still haunt him on occasion. She'd accused him of acting without considering the consequences – how years before his actions have left the Pazzi ruined and how even the innocents in that family paid the price, often with their blood and lives. The Medici have not been kind to them. Ezio doesn't regret his actions, what he did had to be done, but…

He is tired of causing pain for innocents and whatever else Lucrezia is, she is also a mother with children in a family where all the patriarchs are gone. She's all that's left for the children of the Borgia to rely upon. If she died, what would happen to the rest of her family?

Ezio is many things, but he's not the killer of children.

"We will keep an eye on her. If she rises up and aims for power again, we will deal with her accordingly," Ezio says. He doubts she would, though, not with Cesare dead.

"As you wish, Mentore," Machiavelli says, and though he doesn't seem satisfied, he lets the matter be.

Ezio nods and then seeks to change the subject. "How goes your training, then?" he asks, looking at his students around the table. "Bettina, you were having trouble with your knife work – I trust you have been working at it?"

"Yes, Mentore – Candida has been helping me," Bettina all but chirps excitedly and launches into an explanation on how she had been doing.

The rest of the meal passes this way, with Ezio questioning his students in their progress and on their missions and occasionally casting a glance at the man sitting beside him. Though Desmond doesn't give the food quite the same breathless attention he still gives to the wine, it's obvious he's savouring every bite. He is also listening, making no comment but always giving the speaker his attention. Mostly the man seems content to stay silent until spoken to.

"What about you, Master Desmond?" Candida asks, leaning in curiously. "You are an Assassin as well – where did you learn? I bet you have many stories."

"Candida," Ezio says and looks at Desmond. "You need not –"

"No, it's alright. I have stories, but few that are mine to tell," Desmond says calmly. "I learned in many places – in the Levant, to start with."

Ezio blinks at him and then leans in. "In the Levant? You don't mean Masyaf, do you?"

"Masyaf was lost long ago," Desmond says, breaking a piece of bread and wiping the broth from his plate with it. "But some of the traditions still remain."

"Please, tell us about them," Machiavelli urges him on, neutrally interested look on his face. "How do the Assassins of the Levant work?"

"Not very different from how you do, I suppose," Desmond admits. "They place hideouts in their cities, the Assassin Bureaus, and manage the local Assassins from them – not altogether different from your hideout and guild buildings. Novices work to gather information for the Assassins to use, and older Assassins try and teach their younger brothers – it's all very streamlined."

"And sisters, surely," Candida says.

"Of course," Desmond agrees with a smile, and sets his cutlery down. "Though it's rarer."

Ezio clears his throat before the flame in Candida's eyes turns into a righteous blaze. "If everyone is done with their dinner, I will leave the cleanup to Ghita and Mino, since you didn't take part in the actual cooking," he says.

"Yes, Mentore," they answer, though not happily.

"Good," Ezio says and stands up. "Desmond, if you would join me…"

The man nods and stands up. "Thank you for the dinner, Ezio, it was lovely," he says with a slight nod, which reminds Ezio's students to be grateful too.

"Yes, thank you for the meal, Mentore!" they pipe up and, "The food was great!" and, "Thank you for cooking for us, Mentore!"

"You're all welcome," Ezio says solemnly. "And you are also welcome to help me in the kitchen from here on out," he adds more wryly – obviously, more cooked dinners would be needed, and who knows how much money his students have spent on bread lately. "Starting tomorrow morning."

The reception this gets isn't so eager, but Ezio is relatively certain he would see someone in the kitchen by tomorrow, so it's good enough. He nods and then turns to lead Desmond out of the dining hall, when Machiavelli rises from his seat.

"I would join you, if I may," he says, looking at Desmond who is picking his multi satchel bag and his longer firearm from the floor.

Ezio hesitates, glancing at Desmond. The man shoulders his bag and shrugs, seemingly not concerned. Very well then, Ezio thinks – plus, if he doesn't answer Machiavelli's questions now, they would only fester. "Fine," he says. "Come on then."

Together they head to his office, the one place in the hideout where they're guaranteed to not be spied upon. While Machiavelli stands with his back ramrod straight, Desmond looks around with open curiosity, eying the maps and the shelves.

"My last favourite room in the place," Ezio admits while clearing the letters and scrolls from his desk.

"And the one you spend the least time in," Machiavelli agrees.

"Few people like offices," Desmond agrees, eying the map of the world pinned to a wall by one of the bookshelves. Ezio hadn't even noticed it, but the previous map there has been removed and there is a new map in its place.

"Is that the new German map?" Ezio asks with interest, steering closer. "The – what was it called. The Wald – Waldsee map?"

" _Universalis Cosmographia_ by Waldseemüller, and yes. I managed to purchase a copy from a trader," Machiavelli agrees, folding his arms. "The most accurate representation of the world, supposedly. I meant to ask you how it compares to Altaïr's map."

"Well, it seems to be getting closer, but it's still off by quite a lot," Ezio hums. One of his many regrets about the loss of Monteriggioni – the loss of the Codex and the fact that he's never thought to draw Altaïr's map out in a way that was legible to other people. It had so many landmasses that have only just been discovered – and some which are still only a mystery.

Machiavelli looks at Desmond, who is still examining the map. "What do you think of the map, Master Desmond?"

"They already call it America," Desmond murmurs, a strange smile on his face. "I mean, yes, the map is pretty wrong. They're missing whole landmasses."

"More than the New World?"

"Yeah – there's a whole continent here – or thereabouts," Desmond says, motioning to the wall by the right lower right corner. "And the Asian continent is much bigger than that. The Americas are completely wrong, but the coastline is relatively close."

Ezio squints at the map and, yes, yes he remembers now. "You're right, there is another landmass there," he says, placing a hand where Desmond had pointed. "And there was a string of islands here."

Normally Machiavelli would have him draw it as well as he could remember – there is a whole box of maps Ezio has tried to draw ever since they lost Monteriggioni. Now, though, Machiavelli only looks at Desmond suspiciously. "That is something you would know only if you had seen Altaïr's codex," he says.

Desmond arches a brow at that and then swings the strange bag from his shoulder and sets it on the floor. From it, he provides a book, bound in leather with somewhat yellowed pages, and leafs through them before holding the open book for Machiavelli to see.

Upon its pages someone had drawn the map of the world in perfect, meticulous detail. It has all the details Ezio had remembered – and many he had forgotten. It even has islands he isn't sure Altaïr's map had shown at all.

"Where I come from, everyone knows this is what the world looked like," Desmond says while Machiavelli leans in to see.

"What is that – duplicate of the Codex?" Machiavelli asks, even as he leans in to take a closer look.

"It's my codex," Desmond says and motions to the map, to the northern continent of the new world. "That's where I come from," he says. "Roughly speaking, of course."

Machiavelli squints at him. "You are one of the new world savages?" he asks with disbelief.

"Rude," Desmond says, giving him a look. "They are no more savage than you are, but technically you aren't wrong."

"How are you here?" Machiavelli asks suspiciously, taking in his clothes again, the simple woollen robe under the leather one.

"Precursor technology," Desmond says calmly and closes his codex. "A device like the Apple. It transported me here."

Machiavelli narrows his eyes, thoughtful.

"I believe him, Machiavelli," Ezio says quickly, giving him a look. "As incredible as it might sound, it is well within their capabilities."

"How can a man from the new world have an Irish name?" Machiavelli asks slowly. "You would have been born long before Columbus made his voyage."

Desmond smiles and puts his codex away. "Precursor technology doesn't care much about our concept of time," he says and closes his bag. "I didn't come from the present but from the future. In my time, that part of the world was dominated by descendants of the British, the Scottish, the Irish and the like."

Machiavelli lets out an incredulous noise at that.

"Machiavelli," Ezio says. "I believe him."

"This is _nonsense_ ," Machiavelli says in objection.

"I know it must sound so, but I believe him," Ezio says firmly.

"I can probably prove I'm telling the truth," Desmond muses, scratching at his short salt and pepper beard and considering it. "But you have to keep an open mind."

"I assure you, my mind is quite open," Machiavelli says with narrowed eyes. Desmond gives him a look and then takes something from the inside of it his leather robe, a small device.

"What is this?" Machiavelli demands.

"It's a device, man made," Desmond says. "A watch. It tells the time."

Machiavelli frowns and looks down, Ezio doing the same beside him. It's fashioned like a bracelet, though the band is obviously broken. It's quite pretty regardless, really, made of gold and silver and glass, with a clock face like a church tower might have. The hands of the clock are miniscule, as are the golden Roman numbers embossed in the silver surface of the clock face.

As they watch, the thinnest of the three hands moves slowly around the centre, marking the passage of a minute.

Ezio looks up at Desmond, who is watching them with mild amusement. "You used a strange tool in the kitchen to open the bottle – what was that?"

"This?" Desmond asks and takes it out, handing it over. "A Swiss army knife. One of the better military inventions, really. I also have a Leatherman multitool here somewhere…"

Ezio turns the strange knife in his hands, peering at the sides. There's the corkscrew which Desmond used, but there are other things also, other strange tools which Ezio soon figures out can be used by being flipped open from the casting. Somehow, there is even a set of small scissors in the tool.

Machiavelli looks up as Desmond takes out another tool, unfolding it from itself and turning it into a pair of tongs. He opens and closes them and shrugs. "Just some basic tools," he says. "I don't have much that's really all that impressive, just what's useful. If this is not enough, we can head out somewhere and I can shoot a few rounds for your viewing pleasure," he says and pats the musket at his side. "Though I really hope this is enough, I don't want to waste bullets for no reason before I'm sure I can make some more."

Machiavelli hands the watch back to him, frowning. "Tools do not make you a man out of time. These could have simply been built in some distant land and are only new to us."

"Never argue with a sceptic, huh," Desmond muses and shrugs, and tucks the watch away. "I don't know what to tell you. Hmm," he says and then casts a look at Machiavelli. "How goes the _Prince_?"

That brings Machiavelli up short. "How do you –" he started and stops, looking at Desmond for a while. "Can you recite a passage?" he asks then, lifting his chin.

"Not to save my life, never read the thing, sorry – but I know Virtù is a big theme," Desmond says with a shrug.

"Hmm," Machiavelli says, eyes narrowed. Then he looks at Ezio. "You are certain."

Ezio looks between them curiously. "Very certain," he agrees. "What are you talking about?"

"The book he's writing about you," Desmond says, smiling. "Though history will think it's about Cesare Borgia."

Machiavelli looks downright affronted by that. " _Never_ ," he says.

Desmond shrugs. "Sorry, that's what happens. Cesare was a public figure – Ezio, not so much. People drew their own conclusions."

Machiavelli scowls at that. "I must add a passage to indicate otherwise," he mutters and looks at Ezio. "Pardon the intrusion, Mentore," he says and with that, heads for to door and leaves the room.

Ezio blinks after him and then looks at Desmond. "He really writes a book about me?"

"One of the more controversial pieces of literature, I'm afraid," Desmond says with almost a teasing smile.


	5. Chapter 5

> _It took us all summer to find a place to settle along the coast, all summer of slow and steady southward travel. Most of the north end of the coast was out – too much radiation, to many nuclear reactors that didn't take the end of the world well. The place we settled in wasn't the best, exactly, there's a brand new and very active volcano dangerously close, but it was the best we got. Relatively clean ocean, some trees that didn't miraculously get burned when pretty much everything else did, we even found ships on the shore which had crashed but might yet be seaworthy. We would still get winter here, and we do, but it was a little better than in_ _Turin_ _. Or what's left of_ _Turin_ _, anyway._
> 
> _Then begun the building. It was late in the summer and we knew the summer would be a short one – the sky was still dark with ash and pollution from everything burning. We didn't have much time to prepare for winter – we needed a place to weather it as soon as possible._
> 
> _My father was indispensable in this, as were Shaun and Rebecca. I wasn't of much use, but Dad had built houses before, Shaun knew exactly how people without machinery could do construction and how they had in the past, and Rebecca had the engineering know-how to take what they knew and reinforce it against possible four metres of snow. Almost everything I know about building, I learned from them._
> 
> _It certainly helped that we had some modern materials. We took houses apart without mercy for them, using everything and anything we could for wall materials, for roofing. Speeds up the building, not having to actually manufacture the materials. It still took almost too long – we were barely done, when the snow started coming down._
> 
> _The second winter was even harder. Twenty plus people – closer to thirty by that point – are much harder to feed than four. But we survived it._

* * *

 

Ezio watches as Desmond examines his office curiously, taking in the spines of books and every so often turning to look at the map again. This room, he thinks, isn't familiar to the man, not in the way some other rooms in the hideout seem to be.

"I hope the dinner wasn't too rowdy," Ezio says. "My students are young and mostly peasants – it's a struggle to get them to behave."

"No, it was lovely, really," Desmond says. "Please, don't worry about it – there are few things nicer than family dinner like yours. It was a pleasure to take part of it."

"Where you come from people don't eat together?" Ezio asks.

"We do, but – it's not quite the same," Desmond admits.

"I – I understand if you'd rather not, but if you're willing, I would like to hear more of the time you come from," Ezio says, motioning him to take a seat. "It seems very different."

"Yes, very different," Desmond agrees and sits down while Ezio checks his drawers and – yes, Machiavelli hadn't drank his wine. Desmond watches with interest as Ezio takes the bottle out. "What do you want to know about, what it was like before or after the flare?"

"Both, if I may?" Ezio asks and opens the bottle. "If it isn't too much to ask, of course."

"No, it's alright," Desmond says and considers it for a moment. "We'd just begun to catch up to the Precursors where the technology was concerned, by the 21st century," he says. "We had machines doing most of what artisans do today, something called mass production, industrialisation – it made things very easy for us. In a very short time, human population got pretty big, and we built bigger things. Cities sprawled on for miles – Rome of today is small by our standards. Our tallest buildings had over hundred floors."

Ezio hesitates, eying him. "Surely construction like that would collapse," he says but curiously – he's seen enough building projects to know that there are limits to how tall your can build something before its sheer weight becomes an issue. Never mind the wind.

"We didn't build from stone or wood – it was mostly concrete and metal, with foundations that went several levels deep into the earth," Desmond explains and shakes his head. "I'm not an architect, I don't know how they made the skyscrapers so tall, but it took quite a bit of force to bring them down," he says and hums. "Oh course, almost all of them collapsed during the flare."

"What was it like?" Ezio asks, thinking about the vision from seven years ago, the fire, and shudders.

"I only saw the aftermath – I was underground when it happened, deep in a Precursor Temple," Desmond says. "But it was bad. It hit us during day time – people on the other side of the world didn't have it so bad, they were facing away from the sun, so a lot more of them survived. For us, where I was at the time, it was noon and it was bad. People were burned alive, if caught outside. Most of our machines broke or exploded. Within few hours, most of our cities were on fire. Most of the forests on our continent were burned down. And that was before the earthquakes started."

Eying the dark look on the man's face, Ezio offers the bottle to him. "I don't understand how the sun can cause an earthquake. Fires, yes, but…"

"It has to do with the energy of it," Desmond says grimly and eyes the bottle. "Sunlight is more than light and heat – there is energy to it. It made the Earth sort of boil on the inside, which caused the tremors and which opened cracks – gave birth to new volcanoes, and burst open the ones that already existed. The shell of the Earth is composed of plates, and they move, and when the flare hit us, they all started shifting faster. It might have even formed new ones, as the old ones cracked. Who knows. Either way, we got more earthquakes all over the world afterwards.

Ezio stares at him, only barely comprehending. "That sounds terrible," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."

Desmond shakes his head and takes a drink, taking first a slow, savouring sip – and then two long gulps. He sighs after and gives the bottle back. "We survived, but most of everything living on Earth died, either in the flare or in the winters or of starvation" he says. "Whole species of animals and plants were lost – it took years before things started really growing again. If humanity hadn't left behind so much rubble, we probably would have been booted back to Stone Age, but we were a species of seven billion before the flare – there was a lot of leftovers to set us up in the aftermath."

Seven billion? Stone Age? Ezio shakes his head warily. "I don't understand the terminology you are using," he admits.

"It doesn't really matter," Desmond says and leans back in his chair, letting out a sigh. "It wasn't easy, but we survived, somehow, just a group of us. Enough to rebuild a little, even. And eventually I could try to… fix it." He shrugs. "Granted, it took me some twenty years, but here we are."

"Here we are," Ezio agrees, and takes a drink. "I can't say I understand, neither what you had nor what you lost, but I can appreciate you trying to change what happened."

"Thank you," Desmond says and looks away. "I'm not very happy with how it turned out in the end, but – Juno could have picked a worse place to drop me," he muses. "Honestly, that she left me here is a bit of a kindness on her part."

"Oh?" Ezio asks.

Desmond smiles, looking at the map. "Shouldn't have bias, but you've always been my favourite," he muses and then chuckles. "And as far as time periods go, this is a particularly exciting one. Living out my life here won't exactly be a hardship."

Ezio arches a brow at the man, taking another drink of the wine and then setting the bottle down, wondering. Are there other prophets who had sent messages to Desmond? Was he one of many?

"Why did you fail?" Ezio asks and Desmond looks at him with frown. "I mean no insult, but you said it yourself – you failed," Ezio says. "And going back as you did, you must think you could do better."

"... I did," Desmond says and turns his head. "I was meant to use a Precursor device called the Eye, it has some… incredible powers and it could have protected the Earth. But to use it I had to first find a number of power sources, devices to compete the Eye. I failed to get all of them in time," he says and motions around them. "Ironically, it was the same device I used to do this – thinking I could go to a key point and tell my younger self where to go, what to do. I suppose that would have been too easy."

"I see," Ezio says. "And where are the power sources now?"

Desmond frowns. "I have no idea," he admits. "Temples and graves that haven't been discovered and dug yet, I suppose. I don't know where there were originally discovered – just who had them and where they were kept in 2012."

Ezio leans back. "So finding them in this time might be out of the question?"

That makes Desmond hesitate. "Well," he says and frowns. "I wouldn't say it's impossible, but it would be very hard. The power sources aren't linked like other Pieces of Eden, they cannot be tracked down with similar means. But they do have a very distinctive design and they glow, so… wherever they are, they will likely be a notable part of the culture. Maybe even worshipped. And I do know one might be in Egypt – that's where it was in the future, so it might have been considered an ancient Egyptian artefact."

"Can the power sources be used in other ways?" Ezio asks.

"Not that I know of – and if they could be, they probably would have been used in some way by somebody, and they weren't, so… I highly doubt it," Desmond says.

Ezio hums, thoughtful. "I could send one of my Assassins to investigate," he offers. "I have been meaning to begin fostering better relationships with the other brotherhoods, and there is one with their base in Alexandria that I have yet to send an envoy to."

Desmond frowns a little, thoughtful. "I… need to think on it. It might do more damage than good," he then admits. "Thank you for offering, though, I do appreciate it."

"Well, the offer is on the table in case your wish to take advantage of it," Ezio says, and Desmond smiles to him gratefully. Ezio clears his throat. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"You're already doing more than I could have asked for, Ezio," the man says fondly. "Thank you."

Ezio nods, considering him. It's a little disheartening, he supposes, to know that all the effort they had gone through was for nothing in the end, but it must be so much worse for Desmond, who lived with the failure. And at any rate, Desmond is still trying. As it was, it's no skin off his back. As Minerva had said, he was only a messenger and he'd played his part.

"It's a bit much, I suppose," Desmond muses. "To know that the end of the world is coming and being able to do nothing about it."

"It's not exactly an easy thought, no," Ezio agrees and holds the bottle out to him. "But I suspect I can live with it, if you can."

"To be honest, I am kind of warming up to the idea that I don't need to worry about it anymore," Desmond admits sheepishly, as he accepts the bottle again. "I will leave a message, pray that it will be found at the right time, and that's it. I might have to sail to the New World to do it, but after that… I can just retire and grow grapes for the rest of my life," he says and takes a drink.

He says that, but he doesn't look like he believes a word of it. "If you wish, I might have a hillside property in need of a manager," Ezio says wryly. "Once owned by Borgia and their allies and now empty – we haven't dared to sell it because it's a rather advantageous spot."

"What, really?" Desmond asks in amusement.

"Cesare gave it as a plum to one of his favourite executioners," Ezio says with a snort. "Since Cesare left Rome and his supporters scattered – or died – the ownership has been in dispute. Pope Julius II decreed that the ownership would go to whomever I choose, likely to keep other great families of Rome from gaining it and using it to garner favours or power."

"Sounds like very political piece of land, then," Desmond says amusedly.

"It's an exceedingly beautiful property," Ezio muses. "I could show it to you, if you'd like."

Desmond eyes him curiously, gauging how serious he is, and then chuckles a little awkwardly. "Later perhaps," he says, eying the wine bottle. "You do not have to give me gifts, or take care of me, Ezio," he says then and smiles a little. "Appreciated though it is, I dare say I can manage on my own."

Ezio hums, frowning a little. He isn't sure what it is about Desmond, but the man makes him want to give. "I have come into possession of quite a bit of fortune," Ezio admits. "And what is the point of fortune it you cannot share it?"

"You could use it for building. A lot of Rome is still in ruins, it could use funds for renovation," Desmond comments wryly.

Ezio gives him a look. "Who says I am not already doing that?" he asks. Though there's a limit to how much he can do without making the current Pope nervous – for as long as the Assassins stay in shadows and keep out off politics, the man is happy enough with them, but rebuilding is fairly legitimate work, which garners a man some favour among the people he hires. Ezio might not technically represent any great family – but the name Auditore isn't completely unknown, and in Rome more people know it than not, these days.

It's a good thing Pope Julius II doesn't actually know how many properties Ezio has invested in over the years – and how deep his money purse really is.

Desmond looks at him, curious and reluctant. "I don't want to be given gifts just on the count of who I am, Ezio," he says quietly. "I know Minerva implied things, but I'm only a man, no greater than you – it's the opposite, really. I just happened to be there when the Precursors needed a hand on the steering wheel, and I failed. I don't deserve your charity, nor do I want it."

Ezio frowns at that, giving him a look. "I didn't mean to insult you," he says. "I'm sorry. I only…"

He trails off, uncertain. Calm though the man is, there is a sense of loss and discomfort in Desmond, like he's free floating on the surface with no anchor – Ezio wishes to see him grounded and content.

Desmond looks at him with a sort of patient refusal, and Ezio realises in that instant that the man is something of a martyr by nature. No doubt he is used to refusing things on the count of others being more deserving or needing them more.

Ezio stands up. "Is it not the business of the giver, what he wishes to give?" he asks. "It is quite rude to refuse gifts, you know."

"It is not, when they are underserved and the giver has better things he can do with those gifts," Desmond says, hesitating in the chair, as if unsure if he too should stand. "I do appreciate the sentiment, though, really, Ezio, thank you."

Ezio considers him with interest. "Has no one ever given you a present?" he asks.

"Not an entire property, certainly," Desmond laughs and shakes his head.

"To be fair, it's not a very large one," Ezio offers. "And though the house is lovely to look at, it's quite small. It's also been unused for nearly a year now, it'll likely be rundown."

"Regardless, I think I have to refuse," Desmond says with an amused smile.

"Why?" Ezio asks.

Desmond hesitates. "I wouldn't even know what to do with it – honestly, Ezio, I was just making a joke."

"So was I, but then you refused so vehemently that I think I must take exception," Ezio says wryly and steps around his desk, to lean on the front so that the expanse of it isn't between them. "I'm afraid I have to insist now. Getting someone to manage the property would actually be something of a relief for me, I would no longer need to concern myself over it. In fact, you would be doing a favour, taking the place off my hands."

"You are making that up to persuade me," Desmond says with a sigh and takes a drink.

"Am I?" Ezio asks pointedly. Honestly, he kind of isn't, though it isn't as if the matter of the hilltop house is that vital. Just one of the many loose ends the Borgia left behind. "Do you ever let anyone give you gifts?" he asks with interest.

"To be fair, there isn't much to give where I come from," Desmond says flatly.

"And when it ever came to, I suppose you always demurred," Ezio says, looking the man over. "You obviously need some more joy in your life."

Desmond arches a brow. "I think that's a little unfair," he says.

"It would be, if you weren't refusing the joy I'm trying to offer you," Ezio says and folds his arms. "I've never had this much trouble giving someone something. It's becoming a question of honour now."

"No one rejects Ezio Auditore, hmm?" Desmond asks and shakes his head, amused. "And to think I thought you mellowed with age."

"Ha – I age like wine and only grow more potent with time," Ezio answers, reaching for the bottle in Desmond's hands.

"Well," Desmond muses, smiling as he eyes Ezio's features. "I can't argue with that."

 _Ah_ , Ezio thinks, his fingers winding around the bottleneck. He thinks for a moment, weighs his options and potential consequences – and then he sets the bottle down on his desk.

Desmond watches him with patiently curious expression as Ezio pushes away from the desk. The man leans back in his chair, but makes no other move as Ezio steps in front of him – and suddenly Ezio knows exactly what he wants and why he wants to gift Desmond with beautiful things. The look on the man's face when he sees them is almost heartbreaking in its beauty.

"Will you reject me in this?" Ezio wonders, reaching a hand for the man's cheek. The greyed beard feels coarse under his hand, but through Desmond's skin looks sunburned in places, it's soft and smooth.

"We haven't drank _this_ much, have we?" Desmond asks, blinking, as Ezio trails his fingers curiously up along the hair beside his ear, pushing his black wool hood out of the way. His compliance – because he is making no move to stop Ezio – is surprisingly thrilling.

"One needs not be drunk to appreciate another," Ezio says, carding his hand through Desmond's short, coarse hair. It feels springy under his fingers and Ezio knows, if Desmond had longer hair, it would be quite curly.

Desmond swallows. "Is this another gift you're trying to give me?" he asks, wary. "You don't need to do this, Ezio; I would never ask this from you."

"No, you would not and I need not," Ezio says, scratching his fingers along the streak of silver grey on Desmond's temple. The man had greyed young – Ezio isn't sure Desmond is at all older than him. He might even be younger. "But now that I see your eyes, I think I want this gift for myself."

Desmond blinks, staring at him in breathless attention, and still he yields as Ezio lifts his other hand to the man's chin, curling his fingers under it and tilting his face up. Desmond says nothing, but when Ezio kisses him, he kisses back.

It's one of the most tentative, cautious kisses Ezio had ever shared with anyone, let alone a man. Desmond kisses like he drinks – savouring every sip of Ezio's lips and breathing him in as if he were rich perfume. It's shockingly heady, to be so fervently and carefully enjoyed even in such a small act of affection.

Ezio strokes his hands greedily over the coarse hair and opens his mouth in an invitation he is now sure will be taken, even if with great hesitation – Desmond inhales shakily and tastes his lips in gentle passes, as if scared of taking more than is given.

In that moment Ezio knows, he doesn't want to dominate this man into compliance – he wants to give the man all he would take and luxuriate himself in what he is now sure will be breathless worship on Desmond's part.

"Come with me," Ezio breathes as Desmond mouths at his lower lip. "Come with me to bed."

Desmond exhales slowly and pulls back to look at him. His hands are sitting almost neatly in his lap, like he daren't touch, and Ezio needs to feel them on his body.

"Come with me," Ezio coaxes, reaching to take this hands, tanned and scared and almost hot to the touch. "Please."

"If this is some sort of twisted tribute you're trying to pay," Desmond starts, even as he stares at Ezio like he wants to kiss him again.

Ezio lets out an impatient noise and when he pulls at him, Desmond gets up without further objection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

> _Eventually things started looking up, though. Once we were through the second winter, we were through the worst of it and everyone could tell. The second summer, we had greenery again, and though the summer was short and cold, there were blooming flowers. We've survived._
> 
> _We had a stable radio signal and bit by bit were coming into contact with other small communes, some of them even nearby. We got refugees, people who'd heard our broadcasts or seen our scavengers at work – or who just left their old communes to join ours at the coast. We were one of the few ones who had settled at the coast, it turns out – most had headed either southward to get away from the winters or inland, away from the worst of the nuclear fallout. The east side of the continent had an unfortunate ammount of nuclear reactors, after all. Emphasis on the word had._
> 
> _But things started looking up. We built more things that summer, houses, warehouses – we started making glass stills. During the summer it's the safest source of water, it now turns out, distilling water from ocean water. So as long as you get the water as far out in the ocean as possible, of course, the coastline is a mess of debris and rubble now. But go out far enough, get your water from deep enough and it's almost clean. Filter it half a dozen times and it's good for the stills. And that far out you can even find fish again._
> 
> _It wasn't easy, it was nothing like we had before, but eventually… eventually it started looking like we would survive. Our population grew from thirty to fifty to hundred, and not all of those people came to us empty handed. Some brought with them gifts. We got our community's first cow that summer, rescued running wild in a burned city. We barely had the grass to feed the thing but… we had a cow. Eventually we had chickens, and started thinking of farming._
> 
> _Things started looking up._

* * *

 

Ezio wakes up alone, which he had not expected. Blinking and yawning he reaches for the empty side of the bed to test how warm it is – it isn't – and then looks around. Desmond's clothes are gone too, as is his bag and weapons. And he'd left some time ago.

For a moment Ezio just lies there, gauging his own disappointment. Then he glances towards the curtained window. It's early, very early. How early did Desmond leave? Did he just wait until Ezio feel asleep and then slink off?

Yes, he decides, he is disappointed.

"Damn it," Ezio mutters and gets up, reaching for his clothes, scattered on the floor. The night had been lovely, he thought, they had had a great deal of fun and pleasure together – nothing about it constitutes as a cause to flee, surely? But perhaps his read on the man was wrong, or he had underestimated Desmond's martyrdom. Never had he met a man so pleasant and so against enjoying the good things in life.

Ezio pulls on his full armour more out of habit than necessity and then sets out searching for his bedfellow, half expecting not to find him. It's still so early that the hideout is asleep and lanterns have been extinguished and fires have burned low. Everything is very quiet.

Except the art gallery – there is light there and the slightest sound of scratching. Frowning, Ezio makes his way silently to the doorway – and there is Desmond, sitting on the floor, book in his lap and lantern sitting beside him.

He looks up and rests a hand on the book. "You're up early," the man says, wary.

"You're the one to talk," Ezio says without a frown. "What are you doing out of bed?"

Desmond bows his head a little. "I couldn't sleep, sorry," he says.

And because of that he took all his things and slinked out like a thief in the night? Ezio frowns a little. "If you wished to sleep alone, there is a room prepared for you, you could have rested there."

Desmond says nothing to that, looking down at his book, awkward. "I'm sorry," he offers again.

Ezio sighs and walks closer. "It's alright," he mutters. "I only thought you'd left entirely. I didn't think I was that scary."

Desmond snorts at that and looks to – not to him but to the painting across from him. "You aren't," he says and continues scratching on the book’s passages. "I just… don't know how to do this anymore."

Ezio casts a look at him. The man is sketching out a copy of the painting – is not bad, though nowhere near the skill of Raphael. "You don't have to do anything," Ezio says and with a sigh sits down on the floor as well, crossing his ankles. "The night can remain only that – it need not be more complicated than that."

"Hmm," Desmond answers, pausing. Instead of using a quill or brush or even a stick of charcoal, he is drawing with a sharp stick of wood which leaves faint grey marks.

Ezio casts him a sideways look. "I wasn't that bad, was I?" he asks wryly.

Desmond smiles faintly. "You were lovely, thank you," he says, glancing at him. "You have nothing to worry about in that department, trust me."

Then why on earth is the man not in bed with him? Ezio gives him a dubious look, wondering, and Desmond looks away.

"I don't sleep much," he admits. "And I'm not used to lying around, doing nothing. It makes me feel guilty for not working."

"Not many moments of leisure where you come from?" Ezio guesses.

"Not many, no," Desmond agrees as he continues to draw. "There's always something. Or there was, I suppose," he muses and the stick in his fingers stalls. "I suppose I will have to get used to doing nothing now."

"Or you could accept my offer and start a vineyard," Ezio offers. "Would you like to see the place?"

He expects Desmond to reject the offer off hand, but he hesitates, tapping the edge of his book with his stick. "You know what," he says. "I think I would."

Ezio blinks and then stands up. "By all means, then," he says. "It's a bit of a walk away – can you ride a horse?"

"I'd rather walk, to be honest," Desmond admits and packs his book away. "Took a bad fall a few years back – my tailbone doesn't agree with riding anymore."

"We shall walk then."

It's still dark outside and the streets are almost completely empty of people. Above Rome, the sky is clear and cloudless, full of stars with no moon in sight.

"There's so many people here," Desmond murmurs, watching a nearby group of sleepy courtesans trying to wheedle the last of their night's earnings from a drunken group of men.

"How many did you have where you lived?" Ezio asks.

"When I left, only couple thousands," Desmond admits. "And for the area, my town was considered large. Before the flare, though, I lived in a place called New York – it had millions of people."

The disparity of numbers is startling. "That few," Ezio murmurs.

"Old World fared much better," Desmond assures him. "The flare didn't hit this area directly. Asia, the Middle East and that part of the world… they were in shadow. Where I lived the losses were greatest because we were facing directly at the sun at the time – that's probably why Precursors built the Temple there."

Ezio hums, not quite able to wrap his mind around it all, it still seems so terribly fantastical and horrible. "Seeing the crowds around the Pantheon must have been a bit of a shock then."

"It was," Desmond agrees.

They continue on their way silently for a time, Desmond looking around with quiet, sad wonder and Ezio watching him in turn. What must it be like, to have what to him is distant past made so new and so grand? Would it be like if Ezio now went to Monteriggioni to find someone had built a palace there and repaired all that was lost?

Even imagining it hurts.

They cross over the Tiber river and move to the poorer sections of the city and eventually past them. Broken houses begin to give way to open fields, and things grow quieter still as they walk along the hard packed roads, some still showing signs of ancient architects that had first built the streets of Rome. In the distance, sunlight is starting to break through gaps of a distant aqueduct, casting long shadows over the fields.

Ezio had never been particularly blind to the beauty of Rome, but Desmond is by his mere presence making him see it anew. The city is vast and ancient and grand but also very fragile, isn't it, built upon crumbling ruins of civilisations long gone. The Borgia had proven how easy it was to abuse, how quickly ancient stones could be broken to dust. Ezio had by force rebuilt some of it, he'd forced the aqueducts rebuilt and breathed life into businesses through his wealth, but even all that is easy to undo, isn't it?

The current Pope might be doing better than Pope Alexander VI, but popes change, as do politics. Maybe in the future there would be one who decided the aqueducts world better serve the papacy by being broken down and built into the walls.

Maybe in the future the Sun would flare again and everything would be brought to ruin.

They arrive at the estate slowly, winding through the still shadowed streets and eventually to the hill where once the executioner had lived, overlooking the people the Borgia paid him to terrorise. After his death, his family had lived in the estate for a while, but even they had left as Borgia lost power. Though it's obvious people have been in and out of the place since, no one lives there and thus the yard and the field around the place have fallen fallow.

"Oh, that's a view," Desmond murmurs, not looking at the house at all. Here's staring instead at Rome, as seen from the hill and through the gaps of the aqueduct standing between them and it. Sunlight is lighting up rooftops and making the city glow against the shadows still lingering on the streets below, making the visage striking in how every glowing feature seems to be carefully underlined. It is quite the view indeed.

"Now you see why the place is somewhat contested," Ezio comments.

"I see it, yes," Desmond agrees "Is sunset as pretty, seen from here?"

"Prettier, from what I recall," Ezio says and looks at him.

Though Desmond is obviously enjoying the view, he's not giving it the buyers consideration – he's only enjoying the view for the sake of the view. He looks a little wistful even, which is telling.

"You will not stay here, will you?" Ezio asks quietly.

"I have to travel to the New World to leave my message," Desmond says and looks at him. "But maybe I will return, after that's done. Who knows, maybe there will be vineyards then."

Ezio frowns, taking in his expression. He doesn't look like he believes a word of it. "I am sending some of my students to the New World, some have already gone to establish a new brotherhood there," he says. "They could take your message, leave your warning, and you need not go."

"I really do, though," Desmond says and sighs, looking away. "They wouldn't know where to go and what will survive into future."

"They would, if you taught them."

Desmond shakes his head slowly, his expression calm and a little amused. "Ezio, we've just met. You can't be this attached to me already," he says and looks at the scenery again. "I'll go and you'll forget me in no time at all, it'll honestly be better that way."

Ezio opens his mouth to argue, and then closes it. He isn't sure why this hurts, but it does. He let Caterina leave with barely a word and he'd known her for years – he's known Desmond for a day and this seems like the pain he will not recover from. It scarcely makes any sense.

Desmond smiles and draws a slow, almost satisfied breath. "Your city is beautiful," he says. "I'm glad to have seen it and I would like to see it again one day."

"Yes," Ezio says. "I would like it as well."

But by the tone of Desmond's voice, the man doesn't think he will ever return. And Ezio isn't sure he can argue against it without seeming unnecessarily childish – Desmond has a mission and it is a vital one. Ezio's sudden feelings weigh little in comparison to the world.

"Will you let me fund your voyage and see you off properly?" Ezio says and lifts a hand to stop the man before he can object. "And don't you dare argue that the money might have better cause than saving the world, I won't hear it. You are an Assassin and this is an Assassin's mission, funding it is my right and my duty."

"Why ask me at all, if you won't take a no for an answer?" Desmond asks exasperatedly. "I'll accept, Ezio, thank you."

"Good," Ezio says, though not happily. "I will see about chartering you a ship, then – if there isn't one here bound for the New World, then I will arrange it with our Spanish brothers. Where are you bound?"

"North," Desmond says. "As far north in the New World as they've explored, according to that map in your study."

Ezio nods. "I will find you a ship with the right destination," he says. "Though you might have to wait. These things take time."

Desmond nods. "Everything does. I can wait," he says and looks at him. "Thank you, Ezio."

"Don't thank me for sending you away," Ezio mutters with surprising bitterness and reaches for him. Desmond sways into his arms and touches his shoulder just as Ezio seeks out his lips and kisses him.

Desmond is a little more confident with it than he was during the night, but there is still hesitation there – where Ezio would like to feel passion instead. And as much as Ezio wants to get more, he isn't cruel enough to force it.

He pulls back, and Desmond watches him with a fond but conflicted expression. "I'm sorry," Ezio murmurs.

"Don't be," Desmond says, lifting a hand to his jaw, brushing his thumb over the edge of Ezio's beard. "You make it very hard to be the better man here, though," he admits with a wry chuckle, as his thumb follows an invisible line down to the more visible one that cuts through the side of Ezio's mouth. "I'm trying to do the right thing here, and you – you are very tempting, Ezio."

Oh, indeed? "That I will not apologise for," Ezio purrs and leans closer, tilting his chin upwards. "There's time still, isn't there? The day is young."

"God," Desmond murmurs. "You really are insatiable, aren't you?"

"You all but fled my bed. Is it surprising that you left me wanting?" Ezio asks, taking hold of the man's waist and urging him to turn towards the house. It's too early still for many people to be out and about, but the day is dawning and they are out in the open. "I would have more of you before you flee the entire continent."

"Don't you have work to do?" Desmond murmurs, even as he yields.

"Machiavelli promised to cover for me for a day or two – I have a day yet all to myself," Ezio says and opens the door. "And you."

Desmond hums amusedly at that, but doesn't object further as Ezio closes the door and leaves them in the shelter of shadows. In the darkness his eyes glow and there, Ezio thinks with satisfaction, there is the passion he longs for.

They make love on top of their own robes, for the lack of anything better in the empty house. It's delightfully clandestine and borderline indecent, to lie back on the mixture of black and white and red while Desmond moves over him, his hands shaking with growing eagerness and his lips thirstily kissing and sucking every part of Ezio he comes across. Desmond is an almost feverishly intense lover when he gets going, and Ezio urges him on without shame, squirming against him and spreading his thighs in welcome. It's the most impassive Ezio had ever been while love making and also the most invested.

The moment Desmond losses himself in Ezio's body is sweeter than any wine, and with a shuddering sigh and manic smile Ezio swears to have him as many times as he possibly can before he will lose the man to his unearthly mission.

He murmurs this in Desmond's ear hotly, and many other lustful oaths besides, and moves against the man in already growing need – and almost without any break inbetween, Desmond makes shaky, worshipful love to him again.

* * *

 

Desmond stays with the Brotherhood until his departure, almost a month later, and the time he has spent among them makes it both easier and harder to let him go.

Ezio doesn't believe in love at the first sight – for him, emotion has always been a slow build, a swelling wave growing with understanding and touches shared. He isn't sure he believes in destiny anymore either, certainly not in terms of people being destined to be together. If there is a God, he does not care about any of them enough to make them perfect matches. All humans would untimely die alone.

And yet, it still feels like part of him is being detached, a whole chunk of his soul removed and packed away, as Desmond readies himself for the several weeks – or, if he's unlucky, several months – at sea.

"I can't thank you enough for the hospitality," Desmond says, as they make their way towards the pier. "It's been lovely here, and I've never lacked anything. Thank you."

"We're all sad to see you go," Ezio says and glances at his students, who are not hiding themselves well in the harbour. "Some more than others."

Desmond smiles but says nothing to that – he rarely answers pleas to stay. Ezio looks at him and sighs – he will not make this a bitter goodbye, not when it's likely he will never see the man again. "I have enjoyed our time together," he says quietly. "And I'm glad to have met you."

"You too," Desmond says and stops, looking at the ship which would take him to Spain and from there to the New World. He sighs and turns to Ezio. "I can't promise you I will come back," he says regretfully.

Ezio will not ask him to try. He will not, no matter that he wishes he could. "I know," he says instead. "Better not make promises you can't keep. I hope you have a safe and uneventful voyage, Desmond," he says and offers the man his hand.

Desmond takes it and shakes it, and he looks – sad. Wistful. "In the future you might wonder about your life's purpose," he says. "Believe me, it wasn't just to deliver a message. You have rebuilt the Brotherhood, made it great in unmatched way – each and every Mentor that follows will try to model themselves after you. If your life has to have a meaning, it's them," he says, motioning to Ezio's students. "Not what the Precursors planned for us. I want you to know that, alright?"

Ezio swallows, wondering what it is about his future that makes the man say it. "Thank you," he says.

Desmond nods, eying his face for a moment. Behind him, on the ship, the bosun is calling the last of the crew to get on board. "Thank you, Ezio," he says, and his voice goes a little low with emotion. "For everything. And goodbye."

"Goodbye, Desmond," Ezio nods and releases Desmond's hand. The man turns and, without another glance backwards, walks to the ship.

Ezio gives himself a moment to wonder what it could be like, to walk right after, make his way up that gangplank, and board the ship with him. Just a moment of wistful thinking given to a strange and wonderful future he could have there, in the New World… with Desmond.

Then Ezio turns and makes his way down the pier, where his students and his city await.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go


	7. Chapter 7

 

> _There were people who said we would be fine. Maybe we would have been. We hadn't lost everything, not in the way the Precursors did, I don't think. The problem of their time was that all technology was Precursor technology and humans probably didn't know how most of it worked, or how to build it, how to power it – and so when Precursors died, the things they made died with him. But we're all humans._
> 
> _We found technology that still worked, eventually – things that had survived. Underground, in subway tunnels, in basements, bomb cellars, in former military bases, we found phones, computers, technology we thought we lost. Most combustion engines were useless, the fuel had combusted in the solar flare and by the time we found engines that might still work, the fuels still left had aged, couldn't be used… but we could build windmills._
> 
> _Before the Flare, we didn't understand the power of having lighting around the clock. It was four years before we had electric lighting again, and it changed everything. Where before all activity dwindled down when sun went down and light died out, now we could continue all the way into the next morning if we wanted to. The amount of productivity you get out of a day when you have light to do things, it's… pretty incredible, really, what a difference it makes._
> 
> _I think in lives we lost more than our predecessors seventy-five thousand years ago, when they went through the Flare. I doubt the planet was as heavily populated then. We lost billions of people, yes, but… In terms of progress and technology – and knowledge? Even if we lost 99.99 percent of all of it it, the one hundredth  percent still counts for a huge amount of things. We were pretty damn prolific race when it came to creation, before the Flare. It took us a while to find it again, but it was there, we didn't lose it. We could rebuild it, and it wouldn't take us tens of thousands of years to do it._
> 
> _Fifty years at most, Shaun predicted, not even that, and we'd have continental flights again. Not commercial ones, maybe, but someone would do it. We might revert to city states and small community government, maybe even Feudalism, but we wouldn't revert back to stone ages, not even in the middle ages – not even the renaissance. We had way too much knowledge at our disposal. So, unless someone made actual concentrated global effort to erase the past, we'd eventually regroup. Hundred years, and we'd be back on track. Couple more centuries, and we'd be back to millions and maybe even billions in population. Just give us a bit of time to get mass production agriculture back on track and we'd be unstoppable again._
> 
> _So in that, Juno lied, and maybe despite all the losses we would have been fine._
> 
> _But does the fact that we would be fine make the losses any less severe? And if there is any way to reverse the time… isn't it my duty to try?_

* * *

 

Desmond leafs through the book in his lap, tapping a pencil against the edge of the stacked pages. All in total the thing has two hundred and fifty pages – he's filled about a hundred of them with writing, with sketches, maps, designs and occasionally replicas of paintings. Twenty years, and he only has hundred pages to show for it. Well, twenty, plus what's going on now, he supposes.

He should've stayed.

The ship sways around him, and above head the lantern he hooked to the ceiling swings from side to side, making shadows in his small cabin dance. He has barely the space to move around in the place – just half a meter of space between the wall and the cot where he'd been sleeping for most of the voyage. It's not the worst living he's endured, but it's a bit claustrophobic to his tastes. Private, but with definite set backs.

He should write something. There's so many things about the future he hadn't included. Small things, which amounted to huge things, really, when viewed from the outside. Stuff like the garden plots, the effort they put into digging up non-irradiated soil. How everyone was carrying Geiger Counters for five solid years. How important compases became. How happy they were when they figured out how to build a loom.

He misses the communal sauna they'd built in the community, in lieu of private bathrooms or even bathing house. It probably wasn't a proper sauna, more of a hot room really, but it was a place for bathing heated with hot oven to boil water with and to add a lot of hot steam – much warmer and safer that way, to bathe in the middle of the winter. It was more hygienic that way, too, since running water wasn't a thing anymore. It was definitely warmer way of bathing than anything he's done here, in this time.

He should write it down… but with this swaying it would probably end up illegible.

Sighing, Desmond leafs through the last page, to the map he'd drawn of the Turin area, tracing a path leading to the Grand Temple. Then he closes the book.

Honestly, he should burn the thing. It has schematics for windmills, for engines, for batteries and for goddamn light bulbs. Instructions on how to make penicillin and aspirin and stuff. Probably not safe to have in the damn Renaissance.

He puts it away in his bag instead and then looks up as someone starts ringing a bell. It's not the time keeping bell they ring every hour – it's the _we've spotted the land, all hands on deck_ bell.

Pulling his backpack shut, Desmond hoists the thing to his shoulder and then, after a moment listening to the movements outside his door, he steps out of the cabin and makes his way up to the deck.

There it is, a dark line of land on the horizon, rock steady against the rocking of the ship and the waves beneath its keep. Hour at most, and they'd make landfall.

Desmond walks to an open spot by the railing, where he won't be in anyone's way, and watches the land approach with mixed feelings. He should've stayed, he thinks. He should've stayed.

"I suppose you'll be off this ship the moment we get the anchor down?"  a voice says behind him – the captain, who is walking past him.

"As soon as you get a jolly boat down," Desmond admits.

"Good," the man says firmly and then continues on and that's that. Friendly, Desmond thinks and turns to the shoreline.

No helping with that, though – the sailors kind of think he's the devil, and everyone have been keeping their distance since he came on board. That suits him fine – honestly he'd needed the time to self-flagellate, probably. Still not quite done with that, but here they are now, and it's way too late to turn back now. Like it or not, he's going on shore eventually.

Shit, Desmond thinks and tugs at his hood to cover his eyes against the glare of the sun over the waves.

He should've stayed.

An hour later, with gulls screeching all around and the walls and battlements of the city looming ahead, they set anchor in the harbour of Rome.

* * *

 

Desmond is full of strange mixture of contendness and absolute terror as he steps onto the streets of Rome again. The city isn't that different from how it was the last he'd seen it. Fashions have changed a little, there are new flourishes on old buildings and some of the older ones have been repaired and rebuilt, but overall the place hasn't changed much in the past few years.

No sign of Assassins anywhere near, no white shadows flickering on the rooftops above. Desmond knows it doesn't actually mean anything. Maybe they've learned to blend into crowds more or maybe things in Rome are more settled now and the Assassin Brotherhood doesn't need to flaunt its presence as much anymore. It still makes him feel a little uneasy, like something's… lacking.

It should be lacking. Ezio shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be.

Adjusting the weight of his backpack on his shoulders, Desmond sets his direction towards Tiber island, hoping and fearing and feeling frankly a little nauseous with it. He should've stayed in America, he should've stayed, he shouldn't have come back.  He shouldn't have – but here he is. And there is the hideout, pigeon coop on top, well maintained and utterly unremarkable.

Ezio shouldn't be there.

Desmond crosses over the bridge and then makes his way to the entrance. There is a beggar sitting by the entrance who gives him a suspicious look. Desmond eyes him, hesitant – he doesn't have coin to give the man.

The beggar takes in his clothes, his hood, and narrows his eyes. "Looking for something?" he asks, holding out a hand listlessly for coin.

"I'm off the boat and I don't have coin for you," Desmond admits.

"Stingy, but not what I asked," the beggar says. "You looking for something?"

Desmond swallows and his heart beings pounding as he says, "Ezio Auditore," quietly, too quietly to be heard by passers by.

"Ain't here," The beggar says and Desmond closes his eyes, relieved and pained all at once. And then the man continues without pause. "You'll have better luck on the hill."

Desmond's heart skips a beat now. "The… hill," he says faintly.

"Yeah. At the farmhouse," the beggar says and points vaguely in the direction of the Campagna district. "That's where he always is, these days. Go look for him there."

 _No_. "… Thank you," Desmond says listlessly and then turns to head away.

This is not happening. Ezio shouldn't be here, he should be in Florence, settling down with Sofia. That was what Desmond expected to hear, to find out that Ezio had travelled east, to Masyaf, to Istanbul, where he met his lovely young wife and retired for her – that's what was _supposed_ to happen. And if, if it had, then maybe Desmond could finally stop, could put it aside, could… could find some place and just rest finally, but – but –

The _hope_ kindling in his chest is almost painful.

He gets an Assassin shadow a minute later, while he's making his way out of the city. It's a familiar feeling presence – one of Ezio's recruits, now wearing full Assassin regalia. So, the city does have an active Assassin presence, then. It's… Ermanno, Desmond thinks, desperate for a distraction, but before he can try to wave the man down, he's gone again.

Two minutes later, he has _several_ Assassin shadows. Oh boy, that's not telling and worrisome at all, is it.

Desmond bows his head and then continues on and doesn't signal the Assassins to come down. They want to bear witness, fine. He probably deserves an audience for… for whatever is coming. It's probably not going to be pretty.

It's a long way to Campagna district and to the hilltop house Ezio had once shown him. It's been… years now, but Desmond hadn't forgotten. The humble houses, the farm fields, and the hill, with the single-story house on top. The fields around him aren't so rundown anymore, though. There are rows and rows of grapevines. A vineyard.

Desmond draws a breath and tells himself he's far too old to cry, but damn it… there's a vineyard at the house. He'd made it as a joke, because, because before his death Ezio lived in a farmhouse, he'd ran a vineyard which had never stopped being a little amusing for Desmond, but this…

Pausing on the road in the middle of the grapevine fields, Desmond looks around for any signs of a woman. He's not sure which he wishes more, to see signs of Sofia there, or to not see any. Which would be worse, which would be better? Hell if he knows. Up at the house there is a clothesline, there are flowers growing in window boxes – is that telling? He isn't sure, but his chest hurts.

Really should've stayed in America. He wasn't that lonely there. It didn't hurt that much.

He walks up to the house, hesitating at the door – trying to ignore the Assassins on the rooftop. Seriously, Ezio's students aren't very subtle. Then he hears a rasp of gravel underfoot, and turns – and oh.

Ezio's cut his hair and has gone a little grey. A very steely, dignified grey, it makes his hair look like metal. Somehow, though, the man is even more handsome this way, now that age has finally caught up with his perfect face and drawn lines on it. He's out of armour, out of robes – wearing only a tunic with sleeves pulled up and breeches stained faintly with dirt. He looks a bit like a peasant, for the first time in his life probably.

Ezio spots the assassins on his rooftop first, frowning at them as he rests the basket against his hip – and then his eyes turn downwards. He doesn't drop the basket, which Desmond is bizarrely grateful for, but he does go completely still.

Sofia isn't here, Desmond knows. Ezio didn't marry her, didn't bring her back from Istanbul, wouldn't have children with her. Despite leaving, Desmond still derailed Ezio's life. He still managed to ruin Ezio's life. Ruin his own history. Ruin possibly _everything_. Shit. _Shit_ , he really shouldn't be happy about it!

Slowly, Ezio bends down to put the basket on the ground. Desmond swallows and tries to say something, but his throat feels like someone tied a noose around his neck – all he can do is stand still and wait as Ezio crosses over the distance to him.

Ezio reaches for him, slow and cautious, and Desmond just stands there like an idiot as the man pushes his hood down. For a long moment Ezio just looks at him, his eyes flickering over Desmond's face, taking in the new scar on his cheek. When he touches Desmond, it's shaky with wonder.

"You're back," Ezio murmurs, and his voice is like gravel and honey all at once.

Ezio didn't marry and didn't move on, he instead settled down in the house he promised Desmond and started a vineyard.

"You're back," Ezio says again, and traces a finger down the scar cutting through Desmond's lips. "You're here to stay."

"Yes," Desmond whispers through an aching throat, his vision going blurry – fuck, he's not too old to cry, after all. "Yes," he says, choked, and leans desperately into it as Ezio pulls him in with work worn hands. "I'm here to stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, that's the story.


End file.
